


hunter's archive

by tigriswolf



Series: Alternate Universe [313]
Category: Devour (2005), Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Dragons, Alternate Universe - Pre-Canon, Apocalypse, Azazel (Supernatural)'s Special Children, Brotherhood, Brotherly Bonding, Character Death, Child Neglect, Codependent Winchesters (Supernatural), Domestic Fluff, Emotional Manipulation, F/M, Fluff, Food Issues, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hell, Hell Trauma, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, M/M, Mind Games, Mind Manipulation, Minor Character Death, Mother Hen Dean Winchester, POV Multiple, Possessive Dean Winchester, Possessive Sam Winchester, Post-Apocalypse, Pre-Canon, Protective Dean Winchester, Protective Sam Winchester, Racist Language, Sam Winchester's Demonic Powers, Samulet, Stanford Era, Torture, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-31
Updated: 2019-08-07
Packaged: 2019-10-01 16:52:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 45
Words: 37,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17247902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tigriswolf/pseuds/tigriswolf
Summary: So, I've technically been in the Supernatural fandom for 14 years.  This'll be a dumping ground for quite a few fics I've written in that decade and a half.





	1. Despair behind, and death before

**Author's Note:**

> FOURTEEN YEARS. That is HALF MY LIFE. Wow. 
> 
> Anyway. 
> 
> The vast majority of these will be AU somehow. Look, some were written in 2006, okay? I've given them a read through, making a few grammatical and stylistic changes but the content's stayed the same. Each chapter will have its own notes and warnings, so make sure to read the header. I'll update tags as a I post.
> 
> Also, I've tried to make sure none of these have been posted here before, but, uh. I've posted a lot of Supernatural fics here before, so.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title: Despair behind, and death before  
> Fandom: “Supernatural”  
> Disclaimer: not my character; just for fun. Title from Donne.   
> Warnings: takes place during 4.3  
> Pairings: John/Mary  
> Rating: PG  
> Wordcount: 500  
> Point of view: third

            He is older than his father, taller and broader. Dad seems so young. It’s just _wrong_ , Dad being innocent and _Mom_ being a hunter—his worldview is completely tossed upside down.  Dad’s got no clue what’s out there, and Mom… she’s not the angel he’s always pictured, remembered her as.  She’s just a girl, rebelling against her parents, wanting out of the life.  She’s _Sam_ , ten years before Sammy even exists.

            They’re so young.  He towers over Dad, practically, and he could break Mom in half.  He knows more than both of them put together—Mom may’ve been hunting from the cradle (and Grandpa sure is one scary bastard), but she’s barely eighteen.  She’s a _kid_.  Dad’s been to war and come back, but he’s still just a boy.  He’s still shy and awkward, stumbling through a courtship with the woman he’d spent over twenty years getting vengeance for.

            Dean can’t catch his breath.  His parents, his grandparents, Azazel—all twisted together, blood and even more fucking _deals_ with fucking _evil_.  Even going thirty-six years into the past, to back before November, isn’t enough to escape.  Azazel’s there, fucking with his family, _killing_ his family… Dean’s hands itch for the demon-killing Colt, the shining blade.  He’s the one that killed Azazel, Mom and Dad’s murderer, and now his grandparent’s killer, too.  He’s the one that got Sam killed, which made him responsible for Dean’s deal—and he killed Dad twice over.  He killed Dad to get Mom’s deal, and he killed Dad as part of Dad’s debt for Dean’s life, and Dean wants to strangle the fucker with his bare hands, to rend him and tear him.  Dean learned a lot in Hell, and he really  _really_ wants to put it to use almost-forty years in the past but Castiel’s hand is warm on his shoulder and he’s waking up in _now_. 

            He didn’t change a thing except for the worse.

            Dad was so young, so naïve, so hopeful.  Mom saw a way out, a way into the life Sam still dreams about sometimes, the life none of them ever seem able to have.

            “Why did you even send me back?” he demands.  He wants to hurt Castiel like he hurts now, wants to make the angel cry—if angels can cry.  He never played with an angel in Hell.  Demons can sob oceans, if twisted the right way, and he found hundreds.

            Castiel has no meaningful answer.  His eyes are sad, unfathomably deep, with knowledge Dean will never be able to grasp.  His eyes are holy, God’s light shining out of the human vessel—a man who prayed for this.  Does he regret it now?

            The angel offers platitudes, the words with slightly wrong inflections, and Dean’s anger just keeps spiraling.  He gets so angry with no reason, and he can’t lash out at Sam.  Not at Sammy.

            “If you don’t stop him,” Castiel says gently, “we will.”

Dean misses the clarity of Hell.  Life was so much easier there. 


	2. dying to say something unanswerable

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title: dying to say something unanswerable  
> Fandom: Supernatural  
> Disclaimer: not my characters; title from Sylvia Plath   
> Warnings: takes place in the End!verse, with Samifer  
> Pairings: none  
> Rating: PG  
> Wordcount: 180  
> Point of view: third   
> Prompt: thorns

Lucifer prunes the roses himself. His servants have tried to take the task, but after a few died bloody, they let it go.

Every day, mid-morning, he spends two hours in the garden. He hums to himself, hymns and classic rock, sings a few words here and there. The moment he notices, he stops.

 _Sam_ , he’ll say to the vessel. _Still fighting?_

 _Always_ , his vessel will snarl.

Lucifer will chuckle and look at his roses, flourishing in this new world of his making. Everything but humanity has flourished since Lucifer threw down God. All pockets of resistance have been destroyed and this world is good.

 _No_ , the vessel screams every morning. _No, Dean’s alive. He is!_

Lucifer shushes him and hums a lullaby Dean used to sing, back before everything.

Sometimes, if it’s an exceptionally beautiful morning, Lucifer will sing it to the roses. The vessel will cry, but quiet down to listen.

“Hush, little Sammy, don’t say a word. Dean’s gonna steal you a lightsaber sword. And that if sword don’t gleam, Dean’s gonna steal you a playground swing…”


	3. and then there was one

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title: and then there was one  
> Fandom: “Supernatural”  
> Disclaimer: not my characters  
> Warnings: AU during season 4  
> Pairings: none  
> Rating: PG  
> Wordcount: 100  
> Point of view: third
> 
> Written in 2009

The vessel’s mouth drips blood. Castiel can feel the body weakening around him. He strains for freedom, to escape the flesh and muscle prison, but something holds firm and he beats uselessly against it. 

“Tell me, angel,” the demon coos, its vessel’s eyes flashing golden. “Do you know the phrase _red-herring_?” 

Castiel’s vessel’s left arm snaps, hanging useless at the elbow. He does not make a sound.

“All’a you, so concerned with Sammy. Wonderin’ what’s the plan with Sam, earnest, powerful Sam.” The demon cackles, spinning its knife. “That _was_ the plan,” it tells him gleefully.

“And it worked perfectly.”


	4. He put our lives so far apart, we cannot hear each other speak

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title: He put our lives so far apart, we cannot hear each other speak  
> Fandom: “Supernatural”  
> Disclaimer: not my characters; just for fun. Title from Tennyson.  
> Warnings: AU pre-series; character death; violence  
> Pairings: mentions of John/Mary  
> Wordcount: 2545  
> Point of view: third  
> Written in 2008

When Dean was sixteen, he shoved his right hand into a hot oven and gripped the metal shelf hard. Marissa turned around from the sink and gasped, then rushed forward, pulling him away and shutting the oven with a bang.

Marissa called an ambulance and the hospital kept him for overnight evaluation after she told the doctor what happened.

Dean didn’t see why it mattered.

.

When Dean was six, his dad accidentally shot himself while cleaning guns. No one stepped forward to take Dean and his little brother Sammy in, so they went into the system. They were separated because of their ages and Sammy got adopted almost immediately. But Dean… he remembered Daddy. He remembered Mommy. And he didn’t like people trying to take their places.

But finally, when Dean was eleven, Micah and Beth Marston took him in, gave him a chance. They already had two kids, David and Marissa, and Dean expected to be gone quickly.

Despite his problems and quirks, the Marstons kept him.

.

When Dean was twenty, Beth divorced Micah and left the country, moving to Sweden. Marissa went with her. David had long been gone. Micah drank himself into a stupor nearly every night, sacked out in front of the TV, ranting and crying in cycles.

Dean visited infrequently and eventually no longer went.

.

When Dean was twenty-two, he stopped a bus from hitting an old woman on the street. His eyes widened when he saw the greyhound careening out of control and the bag-lady moving nowhere quick enough.

His instincts flared, hands shooting out—the entire street froze. Dean rushed to her, pulling her off the road. Once they were clear, everything started up again.

After making sure the woman was okay, Dean fled.

.

Dean practiced. He learned the limits of his talent, the nuances and quirks.

On the eve of his twenty-third birthday, he woke up in an abandoned frontier town with a handful of people his age. Each of them, he soon learned, had talents—Kathy could read minds, Jack levitate, Mark move things with a thought, and Cassandra heal.

Jack attacked after the first night, going for Mark. Mark swiftly won, then turned on Dean. Dean froze him. “What’re you gonna do?” Cassandra asked.

Dean licked his lips. “Can you heal Jack?”

She shook her head. “Only the living.”

Dean studied Cassandra and Kathy. “Either of you suddenly feeling homicidal?”

They shared a look. “I hate pain,” Cassandra said. “Anyone’s.”

Kathy moved quickly, but not faster than Dean. He froze her, too, and sighed. “Well, then.”

.

When Dean was twenty-three, he witnessed a murder, then murdered two people. He escaped the town with Cassandra and they went their separate ways.

Before that, though, she told him of the dream, the yellow-eyed shadow telling her about its sick game.

“It wants a leader for some army,” she said. “I think that’s why they flipped.”

Dean responded, “Well now, that’s fucked up.”

.

When Dean was twenty-five, he learned that Cassandra had died, burned herself out trying to heal a handful of children after a fire.

Dean wandered, never staying in one place long. He used his talent sparingly, not wanting to be traced and found. He hustled pool and took odd-jobs, spoke only when he had something to say.

He wasn’t happy. He could honestly say he hadn’t been happy since Mommy died.

.

When Dean was twenty-seven, he dreamed of that cursed town, the place where he became a killer. There were new people there, kids with talents like his.

Dean hurried. He’d failed Cassandra and the others, hadn’t been quick enough. But these new ones… he might be able to save them.

.

Every night showed a different group, with one woman as the common denominator. She must be the new Jack.

Dean crept through the woods and watched her trick the newest collection—a Black soldier, a goth chick, a short White kid, and a tall White kid. Dean wondered what to do; no one but the traitor seemed to have any idea what was going on.

During the night, he made his move, sneaking into the building the kids had holed up in. He froze them all and then bound the traitor.

“Smart boy,” a deep voice crooned from the shadows. “My champion from the last game, who fled the crown and scepter.” Dean turned slowly and a figure wreathed in flame stepped forward. “You weren’t the favorite, I admit—have to say, I thought Mark would win, or Kathy.” The speaker seemed to smile. “That’s where you deviate, Dean. Your gift works on my other children and my army.”

Dean backed up, eyeing the figure warily. He looked around for anything to use as a weapon. “You’re that yellow-eyed shadow Cassandra mentioned.”

The flames faded out to reveal a smirking man. “Azazel,” he said.

Dean tried freezing him, but Azazel only smiled. “I gave you that talent, boy. I can take it away, easy as you breathe.”

Clenching his fists, Dean glared. “What’s the point?” he demanded. “And why haven’t you ever appeared in _my_ dreams?”

Azazel shrugged. “Truth be told, Dean m’boy, I forgot about you. You’re not supposed to exist.” He spread his hands expansively. “You’re an accident, kiddo. A mistake that shouldn’t be.”

Dean shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. “What’s the point?” he asked again.

“You are new, Dean. I didn’t plan for you, and your talents are growing.” Azazel stepped forward, head canted, studying Dean like a science project. “If you tried, you’d learn that can use the talents of those you killed.” Azazel paused and turned, staring down at the sleeping kids.

The tall one was stirring, shifting in his sleep, even through the freeze. “His name is Sam,” Azazel said softly. “He’s my favorite of all. Has such potential…” Azazel glanced back at Dean. “Do you remember before the system, Deano?”

Dean didn’t answer, staring down at the tall kid, Sam. “He shouldn’t be moving,” Dean murmured. “It’s impossible.”

Azazel laughed and vanished, his voice lingering long enough to say, “So are you, kiddo.”

Sam’s eyes blinked open and he yawned, sitting up. He looked around and saw Dean. “Who’re you?”

“That girl’s a traitor,” Dean said, nodding towards her. “I can get y’all out of here safely.”

Sam frowned and rolled to his feet. “How’d you get here?”

Dean sighed. “I’m Dean Marston. I’ve been dreamin’ about this place and that bitch, and I got here by car then walking.”

Sam’s face lit up. “You see things in dreams, too?”

He nodded. “I can also stop time; that’s why none of ‘em have woken up.”

Sam looked around again. “Oh,” he said. “I didn’t even notice.”

They stood in uncomfortable silence for a moment. Finally, Sam said, “I’m Sam Ferguson.”

“Good for you.” Dean rolled his eyes. “We need to get out of here, Sam. I’ve been here before and it won’t end well.”

Sam studied him. Dean tried to appear sincere, since he was. “Okay,” Sam eventually murmured. Then, louder, “I believe you.”

“Thanks.” Dean’s tone was just this side of sarcastic.

Sam smiled, a bright grin that filled the room. “So, whatta we do now?”

Dean thought for a moment. “Wake everyone but her up, get y’all outta here.”

Sam pursed his lips. “But won’t it just start over? More of us for her to trick and kill?”

Dean met his eyes. He’d actually been planning to get the kids away and then come back to take care of her. But for this kid, who looked so innocent and goddamned _young_ , to suggest it…

“Let the others wake up,” Sam told him. “Andy, Lily, and Jake. We should make a group decision.”

“Okay,” Dean said, letting his hold on them go.

.

While the kids talked amongst themselves about whether or not to trust Dean, he considered Azazel’s words.

An accident, a mistake. Able to use his powers on other ‘gifted’ children and whatever Azazel’s army was. Not supposed to exist.

_Do you remember before the system, Deano?_

“We’re not just gonna take some stranger’s word and kill Ava!” the soldier, Jake, roared. “He showed up while we slept. How’d he even get here, Sam?”

Dean didn’t glance over, just kept on staring at the wall, thinking.

Lily murmured something Dean didn’t hear over the rushing in his head.

He’d had a brother once. And a father. A mother. Mommy taken by fire, Daddy by grief, and little brother… what had been his name? He’d been Dean’s to watch out for, but Dean lost him to the system.

“Sam!” Jake yelled. “I’m not gonna let you kill her, especially on the word of some guy I don’t know!”

Jake made a move toward Sam, raising his hand. Dean reacted without thought, Mark’s long-dormant power flying from him and tossing Jake into the wall.

Only Sam looked at Dean, the other two focusing on Jake. Dean shrugged and stood, stretching.

“Here’s the play, kiddies,” he said. “I’ve lived this nightmare before. This Ava-girl won’t stop ‘til she’s the last bitch standing.” He met each of their gazes. “I’ll lead the four of you outta here and come back—none of you need to see it. Forget about this place and go back to your lives.”

Jake shook his head, forcing himself to his feet. “Can’t let you do that.”

Dean froze him. “Stupid kid,” he muttered, looking at Lily and Andy. “What do y’all say?”

“I have no problem leaving this freaky place,” Andy said. “But I don’t want anything to happen to Ava.”

“Same here,” Lily added.

“Fine.” He turned to Sam, brow raised. Sam inclined his head and Dean said, “I’ll bring these two. Stay close.”

.

Dean went first, the only one who knew the way. Jake and Ava floated beside him, Lily and Andy hurried behind him, with Sam last.

All of his senses were sharp, pealed for any threat. Nothing moved in the woods, not even the wind.

“Freaky,” Andy muttered.

“Quiet,” Dean snapped, all out of patience. “Keep your mouth shut.”

Andy grumbled something and Dean turned. “ _This is no joke_ ,” he hissed. Andy jerked back, eyes wide. “I want to save your stupid hide, for some reason I can’t remember right now. But I’ll leave your ass here if you don’t stop making so much goddamned noise.”

“Dean,” Sam said softly. “Something moved.”

Dean raised his gaze from Andy, listening. A little girl’s voice giggled, high pitched and creepy. Dean shivered, trying to pinpoint the origin.

She giggled again and Dean decided to go on the offensive, freezing everything but the kids. “Let’s get the fuck out of here,” he growled and set off.

.

Once back at his car, Dean shoved Jake and Ava in the back. Lily and Andy squeezed in next to them; Sam took shotgun.

No one talked for the long miles back to civilization. Dean tried to think of something to do. Kill Ava, then what? Drop the kids off and hope they could go back to their lives like nothing happened? He doubted it’d be that easy.

“So now what?” Andy asked.

Dean took a deep breath, prepared to lash out again, but Sam said, “Maybe being away from that place is enough.” He turned his head and told Dean, “Pull off up here and let’s see.”

With a shrug, Dean did. Lily and Andy piled out of the car and Dean dealt with the other two. “At the same time or separately?” he asked Sam.

“Same time,” Sam decided.

Dean let them go. Ava was still asleep, but Jake lunged to his feet with a curse. “What the fuck?” he demanded, eyes wide and chest heaving.

“We’re out of the ghost town, kid,” Dean said. “And no one died. Happy?”

Jake’s gaze latched onto him. “Who are you?”

Dean’d had just about enough. “I’ve done my part. I got all y’all out of there. Go back to your lives, start over. I don’t care.”

“But—” Andy’s voice cut off, Dean’s glare silencing him.

“I’m done,” Dean repeated, avoiding Sam’s eyes.

.

When Dean was 28, he learned that Jake Talley died in a gas station shooting, Andy Gallagher in a plane crash, Lily Baker in a car accident, and Ava Wilson from a sleeping pill overdose.

There was no word about Sam Ferguson.

.

When Dean was twenty-nine, Azazel appeared to him in a dream. Azazel grinned at him, said, “I could give you the world, kiddo. All of creation would bow down before you, prostrate itself at your feet. Anything you want is mine to give.”

Dean scoffed. “I doubt that very much, dude. If you were so powerful, you wouldn’t need to play that sick game of murder and deception.”

Azazel looked affronted. “I never deceived anyone, Dean. If anything, I was the first to ever tell the truth.” Canting his head, Azazel licked his lips. “Dean, I can introduce you to your brother. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Meet up with baby brother again?”

Dean’s mind froze and he blinked at Azazel. “You know about him?”

Azazel laughed. “I know everything about you, Dean. Your favorite food, your first fuck, your test scores from eighth-grade algebra—everything anyone could ever want to know about you, and more.” He smirked again, holding out a hand. “Join me, Dean. Take what I offer. I can give you back your family, what you had before the system, before the Marstons.”

Dean thought for a second, staring at Azazel’s broad, dark palm. “You’re afraid,” he finally whispered. “I haven’t chosen a side and you’re afraid of that.”

Azazel flinched and Dean woke up.

.

Dean didn’t use his multiple talents. He took a job as a mechanic in a town on the outskirts of Atlanta. He dated a few women and listened to the old folk talk. He kept a low profile and tried to forget.

But when Dean was thirty-one, a long shadow fell over the town. Watching the news, Dean realized a shadow had fallen over the whole world.

Azazel appeared to him again, in his waking hours this time.

“Last chance, Dean,” Azazel purred. “You’re not my favorite, but you have potential.” Azazel paused and Dean waited. “You’re a survivor, kiddo. So survive.”

Dean closed his eyes. “Does that offer still hold?” he asked softly. “My brother…”

“Yes,” Azazel told him. “It does.”

.

Azazel’s army was spread out in the Rockies. He led Dean through the forces with ease. “Your brother…” he said with relish. “Best gamble I ever took. He’s surpassed my wildest expectations!” Azazel clapped Dean on the back. “I need to thank you for that, Dean.”

Dean didn’t know what he meant, but suspicion was building in him. “What’s my brother’s name?”

“Before the system,” Azazel drawled, “your last name was Winchester.”

A door popped into existence in the rock. “And behind this door,” Azazel said with a grin, “is my general, the most powerful and gifted of all my children.”

Dean glanced at him, hesitant now that the time had come.

“Well, go on, then, son,” Azazel prodded. “Open the door. Your brother waits.”

Dean bit his lip. “I didn’t save him, did I? I didn’t save any of them.”

Azazel smiled. “If it’s any consolation, you tried.”

 


	5. birthday blues

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title: birthday blues  
> Disclaimer: not my characters  
> Warnings: none  
> Pairings: none  
> Rating: PG  
> Wordcount: 185  
> Point of view: third  
> Prompt: Dean's first birthday(or Christmas) after Sam went to Stanford from SAM'S POV.

He can't sleep. Tosses and turns, kicks the covers off, picks them back up again. 

Watches the clock turn—midnight. January 24th.

His phone is in his hand and he doesn't know how it got there. His finger is hovering over the first digit of Dean's number, if it hasn't been changed. Maybe it has. Maybe Dean doesn't want to talk him. Maybe Dean's angry or hurt, or too busy. Sam shouldn't bother him.

It's 12:01 and Dean's 23 now. 

He sets the phone next to him and closes his eyes. He really should get some sleep.

It's 12:10 and the phone is back in his hand, half a message texted, and he flips it shut.

No. Dean hasn't contacted him, even once, and Sam can't break the silence. He can do this on his own.

It's 1 in the morning and Sam throws his phone against the wall. 

At sunrise, he picks it up and sets it on the desk, getting ready for the day.

As the clock clicks from 11:59 to midnight for the 25th, Sam whispers, "Happy birthday, Dean."


	6. I wanna grow something wild and unruly

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title: I wanna grow something wild and unruly  
> Fandom: “Supernatural”  
> Prompt: When Dean is four, he finds a dragon's egg in the back yard. Mommy shows him how to hatch it out. // egghead  
> Notes: AU; pre-series; title from the Dixie Chicks
> 
> Written in 2008

  
  


            She’s in the kitchen, preparing Dean’s lunch—ham and cheese sandwich, no crust, small cup of apple juice, half a banana, and two chocolate chip cookies—when he comes bouncing in, something cradled in his hands.

            “Lookit what I found, Mommy!” he says, eyes shining, face lit up like when he first met the neighbor’s lab puppy. 

            Mary crouches, expecting a frog or roly-poly, even a small garter snake. He’s come home with all those before, and more. 

            But no. In her son’s small, dirt-covered hands is an off-white, pulsing dragon Egg. 

            Mary mutters a very nasty four-letter word and Dean gasps, “Mommy!”

 .

            After taking the Egg from Dean and sitting him down to lunch, Mary goes back outside and stares at it. 

            A dragon Egg. Here. 

            It pulses, gleaming brightly. It’s so close to hatching… she should call someone, Martin or Marianne, or even Father. The Recall had always been their job. Mary was only a Finder, searching out the Eggs. 

            “Mommy,” Dean yells, rushing back outside, cookie crumbs on his shirt. “Is the baby out?”

            She scoops him up, holding him back. “No, Dean,” she says. “Don’t touch it.” 

            He pouts at her. “I found it.”

            Mary cocks her head. “How, Dean?” she asks.

            He shrugs, looking back at the Egg. “I was jus’ diggin’ and then I found it.” He squirms, trying to get down. “C’mon, Mommy,” he says. “It’s not gonna hurt us!”

            She reaches out with her right hand, tilting his chin up to meet her eyes. “How do you know that, sweetling?” Her voice is soft.

            He blinks those large eyes identical to her own. “’cause it’s tellin’ me.”

            Mary sighs. Of course, her life could never be simple.

 .

            She lets Dean carry the Egg in, gently like something precious. He whispers to it, rubbing it clean with the damp cloth she gives him, then makes it a small nest of towels. He settles next to the Egg on his bed, and Mary leans against the doorway.

            She really should have known escape wouldn’t last.

 .

            Dean falls asleep, one hand on the Egg. That’s the final piece of evidence: Dean is not just a Finder, or a Recaller. He’s Bonded.

            “Ah, shit,” she whispers, placing one hand on Dean’s forehead, the other touching the Egg. “I wanted your life to be simple, sweetling.”

            She kisses him gently and leaves, to wait for John. 

            The past has come calling, and he needs to be prepared.

 .

            The Egg hatches over a year after Dean finds it. He never wavered in his faith that it would, and Mary is so proud of her boy. He spent any time he could with the Egg, talking to it, reading it stories (as best he could), and asking questions. She knows he actually heard answers.

            She’s proud of John, too. He showed the depth of his love by accepting her wild tales of dragons and staying. 

            They are all three there when the Egg hatches and a small, wet, emerald green dragonet forces its way out. 

            “Hey, Sammy,” Dean says softly, holding out a hand. The dragon chirps and stumbles its way over to him; Dean gently picks it up. 

            Dean turns to Mary and John, smiling bright enough to light up the world. “I got a lil’ brother!”

            John’s mouth is slack in shock. Mary kneels down in front of her baby boy and kisses his forehead. “Let’s get Sammy some food, huh?” 

            Dean nods excitedly. “He wants milk, Mommy. And somethin’ called viniesen?”

            “Venison,” Mary corrects, standing back up. “Deer.” She walks past John, Dean carefully following. “Get some towels please, honey? We’ll be in the kitchen.”

            John blinks. “A dragon.” 

            Mary smiles. 

           

 

* * *

 

 

The dragonet stayed close to Dean.  Mary smiled at how careful her little boy was; the dragonet was much more likely to hurt Dean than the other way around.  Even his baby talons and fangs were sharper than any blades.  But the dragonet kept his claws tucked under whenever Dean picked him up and carted him around like a kitten.

 

The dragonet was green, dull or bright depending on his mood.  He ate anything Dean gave him, so Mary made sure to have a talk about appropriate food.

 

When the dragonet was two weeks old, he shifted for the first time, becoming a human infant.  His hair was the same dark shade as John’s and his eyes fluctuated between bright green and Dean’s own hazel.

 

John kept watching the dragonet in human form, but Sammy—as Dean called him—didn’t change back.

 

So John and Mary had a new son, a powerful ally that would be raised as Dean’s brother.

 

Then the dark dragon visited and Mary’s wards weren’t enough, and John—would he keep Sammy without her to explain the Bond?  In her last moment before the fire twisted and locked, Mary saw Dean holding a six-month-old human infant and the shadow of bright wings over both.

 

 _Yes_ , she knew in that moment.  Sammy was Dean’s and Dean was Sammy’s, and nothing could tear them apart now.


	7. from whence deep thunders roar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title: from whence deep thunders roar  
> Fandom: “Supernatural”  
> Disclaimer: not my characters; just for fun. Title from Milton.  
> Warnings: spoilers for 4.7; slight AU  
> Pairings: none  
> Rating: PG  
> Wordcount: 500  
> Point of view: third

Dean tried to tell him, but Sam just couldn’t understand. His whole life, ever since he first met Pastor Jim, Sam had prayed. He’d asked God for help, to keep Dad and Dean safe, to get big enough to help on hunts. Recently, he’d asked God for Dean to be saved from the Pit, to be let out of his deal.

After Lilith’s hounds tore Dean apart, Sam prayed for a way to rescue him.

An angel of the Lord pulled Dean out and Sam thought his prayers had been answered.

Dean acted like he’d never left, like those four months didn’t happen. He slept less and he never talked about Hell, except to say he didn’t remember. He worked himself into exhaustion before sleeping, and it was more like a succession of cat-naps than true rest.

Sam prayed for guidance and then Dean told him the angel had said he must be stopped. Sam didn’t know what he’d done wrong—yes, he used Azazel’s curse, but only to destroy demons. Only to search for a way to save Dean.

Dean seemed so young, asking why God would command him to stop Sam.

Sam had no answer. He looked at Dean and prayed again for guidance. God did not reply, sent Sam no instructions.

And now these angels talk of destroying a town, killing a thousand innocent souls on orders from their just God. Dean gets right in Castiel’s face, then strides to Uriel—he tells them what will be and they fall in line.

Sam still believes in God—but he can’t pray anymore. After meeting two angels, he doesn’t see himself praying ever again. They are cold, Castiel and Uriel, hard. They have no compassion, no mercy.

“Don’t let them get to you,” Dean says. “Maybe God doesn’t even like ’em.”

Sam smiles a little. Dean is trying, like he always has, to lift Sam’s spirits.

Azazel’s curse whispers, _We can kill them. We can utterly destroy them. They fear us. They know our strength._

Sam is certain he has control over the power, and that they might need it to stop the demon, the breaking of the Seal, the destruction of the town.

“Dean,” he says softly. “We may need more than the knife.”

Dean shakes his head. “No, Sammy.”

Sam lets it go; he doesn’t want to fight Dean on this. The angels’ words are still echoing in Dean’s ears.

 _They fear us,_ the power purrs. _Even he, our brother—he is not sure_.

Sam shoves it back, into the deep, dark of his mind. It howls with laughter and Sam turns away. He focuses on Dean, brings his attention to Dean’s voice and Dean’s breath.

Dean’s alive. He’s here. God saved him, returned him to Sam, even if only to stop him. Dean’s alive and nothing else matters.

 _Ours_ , Azazel’s curse mutters. _No one can take him. Never again. Ours._

Listening to Dean mumble about fluffy wings and high-horses, Sam murmurs, _You got that right_.

 


	8. evil’s a distinctive smell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title: evil’s a distinctive smell  
> Fandom: Supernatural  
> Disclaimer: not my characters; title from Aida  
> Warnings: AU pre-series, torture  
> Pairings: Samuel Campbell/Deanna Campbell, John/Mary, Sam/Ruby  
> Rating: PG  
> Wordcount: 635  
> Point of view: first
> 
> Written in 2010

Samuel Campbell never actually made it to Heaven, but shh, don’t tell anyone.    He rested nice and cozy near Johnny and the delectable Mary, not that any of them knew it.  They even heard each other scream, and they listened in horror as Dean carved his way from one side of the Pit to the other.

 

Ah, Mary.  She did better than her father, husband, or son on the rack.  I wish we could’ve kept her longer, but damn, did she have a strong will.  Sent herself back Above, to that house in Lawrence, soon enough to protect a woman and her brats.  Two of ‘em, just like Sammy and Deano. 

 

Mary would have made for a magnificent demon. Better than Samuel or John, that’s for sure. 

 

Probably not as good as Dean, though. Seeing that boy wield a razor… ooh, it gives me tingles.  Alistair had his work cut out for him, trying to rein that boy in.  Almost made me think I backed the wrong horse, that I should have courted Mary’s firstborn instead.

 

 _But wait, Azazel_ , you say.  _Didn’t you die before Dean got to Hell? I could’ve sworn he killed you at the start of his year._

 

 _And yes, sweetheart_ , I reply. _He killed me that first day_.  But I am the dealmaker.  Lilith may have held all the contracts, but that was only because she ruled Hell in Lucifer’s absence.  And Crowley may call himself the King of Deals, but that’s only because he’s a paygrade below me.

 

Lilith, you see, thought herself higher than she actually was.  Lucifer made his plans with me, and I delivered his commands to the main players—that kid in Stanford, and dear little Ruby.

 

I wonder what Samuel would say, if he knew his wife never made it to Heaven, either.  Time is fluid in Hell, you know.  Dean sharpened his blades in the ribcage of his grandma’s soul and turned her into the demon that led Sammy astray. 

 

It was all planned, Samuel Campbell wedded to one of Samuel Colt’s descendants, their daughter having children with the last child of Cain’s bloodline.  Everything plotted and put on the map, Lucifer’s grand vision writ large on the world.

 

By my hand, all of it.  And I succeeded, that’s the best part.  Each piece fit and everything fell into place, and Dean shattered the first seal with his own grandmother’s scream.

 

And his grandmother helped break the last, Sammy following her into Hell.

 

 _But wait, Azazel_ , you say.  _Dean killed you_. 

 

 _And yes, sweetheart_ , I reply.  _He did_.  I underestimated that boy, I admit it.  But it was easily done.  You have to give me that. Everyone’s been underestimating that boy from the get-go.

 

But people keep underestimating me, too.  You see, there’s a reason Samuel Campbell never made it to Heaven.  And there’s a reason he’s walking the world again, with Sammy at his back.

 

Like grandfather, like grandson.  Mary’s father made a deal.  So did Mary’s mother.  And her husband.  Her firstborn made a deal with my subordinate, and her younger boy, my darling Sammy…. Well.

 

He really should know better.  Dean suspects something, of course.  Maybe if I’d picked him, back as a six-month old brat, the world would’ve already been brought to heel.

 

Then again, maybe not.  He’s stubborn that way.  That might be why Michael picked him. Probably so.

 

Give me time and I’ll have them all.  Just like I’m not really gone, neither’s Lucifer.  And my boss… there’s a reason Michael picked Dean.  It’s the same reason his brother picked Dean’s to house himself in. 

 

Samuel Colt, Deanna’s grandfather… Abel may have died childless, but he had other brothers besides Cain, you know.  Like I said, I plotted it all out, sweetheart.

 

And the game sure ain’t over yet.


	9. at our heels all Hell should rise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title: at our heels all Hell should rise  
> Fandom: “Supernatural”
> 
> Prompt: Sam and Dean on a job and coming together, can be something as simple as a kiss or even up to NC-17 rating, but they are caught by Castiel, and Castiel finally makes his presence known to Sammy and there's a power play and Castiel realizes Who/What Sam is, which can be at your discretion! I really, really wanna see what you come up for with this! Heee! Or you know, anything would be just fine! Honest! You could throw in Ruby as a bonus if you like!
> 
> Notes: Um… I didn’t exactly follow what you requested. It’s only wincest if you want it to be. Title from Milton. 
> 
> AU during season 4, character death
> 
> Written in 2008

He comes in the night, visiting Dean’s nightmares, weaving webs of protection and comfort. _I saved you,_ he whispers. _I pulled you from the Pit, leaving my mark, and now no demon—no, not even Lilith, mother of monsters—can touch you. This is my doing, Dean, son of Mary, Our chosen Man._ He soothes with gentle caresses, with soft kisses and embraces from Above.

He comes in the night and Sam hates it.

.

Dean has wonder-filled eyes, innocent expressions—all _his_ doing, that _angel of the Lord_. Dean’s savior. The one who did what Sam could not.

Sam did believe. He believed and he begged and he swore fealty, if only Dean would be restored to him.

But the Lord did not respond to Sam. He returned Dean to life without Sam’s knowledge, without talking to Sam at all.

Sam swore fealty, but that is one promise he cannot see a way to keep.

.

Castiel hasn’t shown himself to Sam. Sam asks Dean for a description and he can’t find the words. But he speaks of the so-called angel in hushed murmurs, eyes wide, stuttering in adoration.

Sam does believe in God. He feels in his bones that God is real, somewhere. He prayed and begged and swore allegiance to Dean’s savior.

But Castiel is not worthy. He is using Dean, lying to Dean, playing with Dean. He claims to be an angel, but Sam knows better.

Sam knows there is a Being who formed the world. Sam used to pray to Him. But now, with knowledge and power thrumming through his blood, Sam vows to destroy Him and all His little peons, Dean’s savior included.

.

They’ve cornered Lilith in Salvation when Castiel finally deigns to appear. Dean’s instantly fawning, no longer a strong man who survived Hell intact—he’s nothing but a broken dog, belly-up for attention.

Rage fills Sam, power rising in him. Castiel has eyes only for Dean and doesn’t even spare Sam a glance.

Sam remembers Ruby’s words about angels, how they smite first and ask questions later. She had been full of fear and horror, but Castiel underwhelms Sam.

Dean turns to Sam, saying, “He’ll help us, Sammy.”

Sam smiles at his brother and Castiel flinches back. “No, Dean,” Sam says softly. “He won’t.”

Killing a so-called angel is no more difficult than killing a demon. Dean turns horror-filled eyes on Sam, who lowers his hand slowly.

“Sammy…”

Sam waits. Dean will never leave him; he only needs a moment to readjust. He died for Sam, went to Hell for Sam. He is Sam’s.

“Dean,” Sam says. “We need to finish Lilith now.”

“You destroyed an angel,” Dean whispers. “What’s happened to you, Sammy?”  
  
Sam lightly grips his shoulder, cupping Dean’s face with his other hand. “I’m still me,” he says, meeting Dean’s gaze. Dean lowers his lashes, head bowed. “Look at me,” Sam gently commands.

Dean doesn’t, body tight, jaw clenched.

“Look at me,” Sam repeats.

When Dean does, Sam tells him, “You are mine.”

Dean’s savior, the creature that pulled him from the Pit when even Sam couldn’t, is dead. The Being who never answered Sam’s prayers will soon follow.

“You are mine,” Sam whispers.

And Dean nods.

 


	10. protector of the fools

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title: protector of the fools 
> 
> Prompt: Sam/Dean, third person POV, maybe Sam's old college friend perhaps? And the friend sensing that there's something between them but he/she couldn't quite pin it for what it is?   
> Notes: this doesn’t exactly follow the prompt. 
> 
> Warnings for fears of violence/assault but nothing happens

 

               Bethany didn’t make it a habit to sneak out of the house after curfew, but Mom and Dave were yelling loud enough to wake the dead, so she made an exception.

                They didn’t even notice when she crept by the den, just kept screaming about bills and college—which was still over two years away, so made no sense—and some woman named Monica.

                Oh. Bethany paused. Dave cheated on Mom? Bastard.

                Anyway. She made it out of the house without getting caught and headed east, to the graveyard. Only Janna knew about her habit of wandering around cemeteries, and Janna was in Austin with her dad for the week.

                It was after midnight and the streets were quiet. Bethany cut through a few yards; only Buddy, the Newman’s Rottweiler, was out and he woofed softly at her, thumping his tail on the ground. She smiled at him and kept going.

                Only a single, rusty chain held the gate shut. She climbed over the fence. This particular graveyard, Shady Grove, hadn’t been used in decades. It was quiet, peaceful.

                Janna didn’t really understand this habit of hers, wandering around in-between tombstones with the words long since faded away into shadows. Bethany found it soothing, seeing that everything would end.

                Dad’s grave is in Alabama. Bethany’d never been there, but she really wanted to go. The instant she turned eighteen, she was running and never looking back.

                She walked around the cemetery for a few minutes, just soaking up peace. She buried all her problems with ease, since there really weren’t that many, and sank against one of the tombstones, leaning back into the cool marble.

                Bethany didn’t mean to fall asleep and she startled awake when someone cursed just on the other side of the headstone.

                “Damnit, dude, watch what you’re doin’!”

                Bethany jerked, gasping. Someone was rustling just out of sight. Multiple someones. Multiple _male_ someones.

                Oh, shit.

                She held her breath, sinking down even further. 

                “Dean, you walked into me!” a second voice said. “And quiet down.”

                “ _You_ quiet down,” the first voice shot back.

                So, just two someones.

                A heavy sigh reverberated through the night; despite her predicament, Bethany had to bite her lip so she wouldn’t giggle.

                “Your wit astounds me, Dean.”

                “Shut up, Sam.”

                Bethany listened as the two dropped stuff and then—were they digging up the grave? What the hell for?

                All of sudden, everything got quiet. Bethany had to take a breath, so she did it as silently as possible. 

                When the large hand grabbed her arm and pulled, she screamed. Almost instantly, another hand covered her mouth.

                “Whoa, whoa,” the first voice, Dean, said, turning her around without removing either hand. “Just calm down, alright? We won’t hurt you.”

                She looked at them, trying to follow his instructions. They both were big, so big. She couldn’t see much beyond that in the moonlight. 

                “I’ll let go if you don’t scream,” Dean said. She nodded.

                Slowly, he lifted his hands off her. She stood still, heart racing, promising God and Mom that she’d never leave the house after dark again if she made it home unhurt tonight.

                “What the hell are you doing in a graveyard at night?” Dean asked. 

                That startled her enough to respond, “What are you?”

                Sam, even larger than Dean, holy hell, snorted. Then he said soothingly, “We’re not doing any harm.”

                She nodded, fear and shock turning to the stupid bravery that had her jumping out of a two-story window on a dare in third grade. “Right, digging up graves for kicks is harmless.”

                “You should just go home, forget you ever saw us,” Dean suggested, and it sounded anything but.

                Big as they were, they hadn’t made any threatening moves yet. She got the feeling they wouldn’t. Not quite harmless, but not dangerous, either.

                “What are you doing?” she asked. 

                Dean groaned. “Look, kid, just go home, alright?”

                Mom told her once that she inherited her stubbornness from her father. “No. Not until you explain.”

                In the dark, Bethany watched their silhouettes turn to each other. After a few moments, they turned back to her.

                “There’s a vengeful spirit with bones in this grave,” Sam said confidently. “We burn the bones and pour salt over the fire, the spirit will be destroyed.”

                She scoffed. “The truth.”

                “That is the truth, sweetheart,” Dean replied. “Been a lot of strange deaths in this town, all centered at the Town Hall. You’ve noticed, right?”

                Which, yeah, she had. That’s why she and Janna hadn’t ever snuck in there during meetings, even when Carlos Mancia came for a show. 

                “Fine,” she said. “I’ll just stay here and watch then.”

                “No,” they responded at the same time.

                She crossed her arms. “Unless you physically force me, I’m not leaving. And if you do that, I’ll scream. Bet that’d put a crimp in your ghost-busting plans.”

                “Please go home,” Dean groaned. “Kid, this isn’t a joke. It’s _dangerous_.”

                Bethany raised an eyebrow. “I can wait.”

                Sam sighed. “Dean, let’s just get back to it.”

                They made her hold the flashlight. If it drifted over to them instead of the ground a few times so she could see what they looked like, neither of them mentioned it.

                Old, but not too old. Late twenties, early thirties, maybe. Damn fine, too. Even with her as an audience, they bickered like one of those old couples on ancient TV shows. They seemed to forget she was there, moving around each other with long-practiced ease.

                She wondered if Mom and Dad had been like that, before the accident. If maybe one day she could have that.

                It was over quickly, Dean dropping a lit match onto the gasoline-soaked corpse. “Y’all do this a lot?” she asked, watching it burn.

                Sam chuckled. Dean said, “Yeah.” 

                Sunlight was softly beginning to glow in the east. She studied them; they really were damn fine. “If I asked nicely, would y’all kiss?” 

                They shared a look, then Dean shook his head. “Sorry, sweetheart. We don’t do shows.”

                “Want us to walk you home?” Sam asked as Dean packed up their kit. 

                “Thanks, but no thanks,” she answered. “I can handle that.”

                “Just…” Dean paused. “Don’t go out at night anymore. It’s not safe.”

                She stared up at him, then moved her gaze to Sam. Not harmless, but not dangerous, either. The next people she met might not be like that. It really would be best to stay in from now on… plus, there was her promise to Mom and God.

                “I’ll think about it,” she said.

                Dean scoffed. “’course you will.”

                She didn’t say goodbye, and she bet they followed her home. Instead of freaking her, that made her feel safe.

                Mom and Dave greeted her at the door, angry and relieved. She listened to their rant and finally shook them off to go call Janna.


	11. most solemn oath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title: most solemn oath   
> Fandom: “Supernatural”  
> Disclaimer: not my characters; just for fun.  
> Warnings: takes place during Playthings in season 2  
> Pairings: none  
> Rating: PG  
> Wordcount: 230  
> Point of view: third

_Don’t ask that of me._

            Sam can’t know how much it cost Dean to tell him what Dad said before he left Dean alone in that barren hospital room.

            _You’ll have to kill him, son, if you can’t save him,_ Dad whispered, the words shot through with sorrow.  _I have to go away now, and I need to be able to trust you’ll see it done._

            Dean had no words, too shocked and frightened, and Dad continued, voice softening with every syllable _. It’s in his blood, Dean. He won’t be able to run from it. He’ll have to embrace it or be torn apart—and it might… it might change him. If he becomes someone you don’t recognize… you’ll have to kill him, Dean. To save the world, you’ll have to kill Sammy._

            And Dad walked away. Left Dean with a sad, sorry smile, left Dean lost and reeling. Left Dean with questions, with dread and horror pooling in his belly.

            Dean told Sam some of the truth, but couldn’t bring himself to utter all of it. 

            And now Sam echoes Dad— _kill me if I become someone else. Promise me you will._

            Dean didn’t tell Dad he’d do it. He knows he can’t.

            And Sam begs Dean to follow Dad’s will, like he’s always looked down on Dean for doing.

            _I promise,_ Dean says, but he doesn’t specify what. 

 


	12. far to go

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title: far to go  
> Fandom: Supernatural  
> Disclaimer: not my characters  
> Warnings: apocalyptic future!fic AU  
> Pairings: none stated  
> Rating: PG  
> Wordcount: 135  
> Point of view: third  
> Prompt: traffic

Sam never really thought he’d miss rush-hour, bumper-to-bumper, thirty-minutes-to-move-a-mile traffic. He never believed he’d miss the greatest hits of mullet rock, either. There’s a lot of things he never considered.

The final battle’s come and gone, and he’s still here. Of course he is. He’s a vessel without an angel, a general without an army, a king without a throne. He’s a baby brother, and an older brother, but his brothers are gone. Michael took them both and Lucifer failed at getting them back, and Sam’s alone in this wasteland, alone with the destruction and remains of a world.

He trudges and he curses and he weeps, but none of it matters. This is his punishment and he’ll endure it, and maybe God will one day take pity and return him to Dean.


	13. Next Year in Jerusalem

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title: Next Year in Jerusalem   
> Fandom: “Supernatural”  
> Disclaimer: not my characters; just for fun.  
> Warnings: AU for the Samulet; AU for Bobby & Karen’s backstory; AU during season 4. AU, basically.   
> Pairings: Bobby/Karen  
> Rating: PG  
> Wordcount: 870  
> Point of view: third

            It was a couple weeks before Christmas of ’91 when John stopped by with the boys. It’d been a while since their last visit and John said this one’d be short; he’d just run low on some necessities and Bobby was closest.

            Bobby let the boys have the run of the place; they were good kids, wouldn’t mess up his system too bad, and kept themselves outta trouble. When John needed his help looking for something in the back, Bobby felt secure enough leaving ’em alone.

            He came back to Sam flipping through a book older than most languages, and swiftly, gently, pulled it from the boy’s grasp. “No, Sam,” he said, trying to keep the gruffness outta his voice.

            Sam looked up at him, eyes big and sorrowful. “Sorry, Uncle Bobby,” he whispered. “Don’t tell Dad I broke the rules?”

            “I never told you not to,” Bobby said. “So, I think we can keep it to ourselves.”

            With one last longing glance at the book, Sam trotted over to where his brother was rifling through Bobby’s record collection. 

            Later that night, Bobby heard someone rustling around his den, so he slunk in, already knowing it’d be one of John’s boys. And there Sam was, with that same book, eyes wide, devouring up knowledge even most grown men couldn’t handle.

            “Samuel Winchester,” Bobby barked out, finding it hard to believe the quiet kid could’a disobeyed him.

            Sam stared up at him, silent for a moment. Then, “Uncle Bobby, is this book tellin’ the truth?”

            Bobby raised an eyebrow. “That depends. Why do you wanna know?” Far as he knew, John still hadn’t told the boy about hunting.

            Sam ducked his head, gently shutting the book and holding it out like an offering. “Dad’s gone a lot… sometimes, I get worried. Maybe if he had some sorta protection, he could come back sooner.”

            Bobby watched him for a second, reaching out to reclaim his book. “Tomorrow, we’ll see what can be whipped up. Now, get on back to bed and I won’t mention this to your daddy.”

            “Yes’ir, Uncle Bobby,” Sam said and hopped up, raced to the room he and Dean had been given.

            Bobby watched him go and shook his head. John was a fool, thinking he could keep the truth from a sharp boy like Sam. Not his place, though. 

            In the morning, Sam kept looking at Bobby with hopeful eyes. John took Dean out for a run, leaving Sam in Bobby’s care; “When we get back,” he said, “be ready to head out, Sammy.”

            Left alone with Sam, Bobby found his resistance to those big, puppy eyes fading. “Alright,” he finally said. “Let’s look for somethin’ that’ll do your daddy some good.”

            He set Sam to work flipping through the least-disturbing volumes he owned, ones that he hoped wouldn’t set the boy to thinking about the dark and lurking monsters. He’d been pondering what Sam might be looking for—a charm, maybe, something small that not many things would know about. Strong, though. Bobby Singer didn’t do things halfway, and a man like John, with storm clouds following in his wake, needed some help.

            And then he found it, just a small scrap of paper tucked away between the pages of a book he hadn’t thought about since Karen’s passing: an incongruous amulet she’d been preparing, for the baby in her womb. Bobby brushed the faded letters with his fingertips, remembering the scent of her hair, how she felt pressed against him, the sound of their baby’s heartbeat loud in his ear.

            “This’ll do, Sam,” he said.

            It would take longer than Sam had, getting Karen’s amulet ready, but Bobby promised that when it was ready, he’d send it Sam’s way.

 

 .

 

            It took over a week to gather everything, and then it was just a few simple words. Karen was a good spell-writer, one of the best in the world; he followed her instructions, penned two decades before, to the letter.

            When it worked, he almost felt her kiss his lips and almost heard her whisper, _Like a charm._

_._

            He drove the four hours to John and his boys, dropping off his parcel. Sam grinned up at him, wider than the world, and breathed, “ _Thank you_ , Uncle Bobby,” turning it around in his palm. “It’ll protect him?”

            Bobby nodded. “It’s strong, Sam. Special. So long as your daddy takes good care of it, he’ll be fine.”

            Sam hugged him and Bobby ruffled his hair. “Gotta get goin’, kid,” he said. “Promised the dogs I’d be back in time for supper.” 

 

.

 

            It was a good three months after the New Year before Bobby saw them again, and he paused for a moment, watching John and the boys come up the drive. Something gold glinted on Dean’s torso. 

            But Bobby ignored his shock in favor of greeting some of the few people he could stand, and never did get around to asking Sam why he gave that protection to his brother.

 

.

 

            It was years after, when Hell came calling and then crawled back soulless, whimpering and flinching, when John’s younger boy stood tall and proud, with Dean breathing and gasping behind him, gold glinting on his chest, that Bobby finally understood.

 

 

 


	14. My body aches to breathe your breath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title: My body aches to breathe your breath  
> Fandom: “Supernatural”  
> Disclaimer: not my characters; just for fun. Title from Sarah McLachlan.  
> Warnings: AU for 4.7; major character death  
> Pairings: none  
> Rating: PG  
> Wordcount: 1000 on the dot  
> Point of view: third

The town burned first, lit up by angelic fire. There wasn’t time for anyone to realize what was happening or to scream; Castiel and Uriel were merciful.

Samhain was not Raised. The Seal did not break. Over a thousand souls were sent to meet their Maker, and Heaven emerged victorious in another battle.

The town burned first, wiped off the map on Halloween night.

Dean knelt at the edge of the crater, silent and still. Castiel stood at his right, Uriel just behind them. Dean knelt, hands splayed in the dirt, watching the smoke rise into the sky. His eyes were dry.

He was cold. So cold. He couldn’t feel anything but the cold.

Castiel placed a hand on his shoulder; Dean flinched away, his only movement since Castiel carried him from Sam’s side. _Dean_ , the so-called angel murmured. _We must leave now._

Castiel had carried him twice, now. Once out of Hell and once away from Sam. Castiel, Dean decided, there in the dust, would never carry him anywhere again.

He remembered how it felt, in Cold Oak, Sam’s body in his arms and Sam’s blood coating his hands. He remembered the emptiness. He remembered the cold. He remembered, and he felt that way now, the crater a gaping wound in the Earth, and Sam’s absence a gaping wound in his soul.

Sam was gone. Erased from existence, not like the others. Uriel had taken glee in telling Dean that, before Castiel shut him up. Uriel had been gleeful, like a little bully boy, not like an ancient and powerful angel at all.

Kneeling at the crater’s edge, inhaling smoke, Dean hated him. Kneeling at the crater’s edge, Sam’s absence shrieking, Dean wanted him _dead_.

The town burned first, lit up by angelic fire. An angel burned second, lit from the inside by one soul’s rage and hatred.

Uriel had no time to scream, but Castiel did. Castiel begged Dean to stop, pled and cried _This is not the way! Dean! You are pure—_

Dean cut him off with a thought. Castiel burned third.

Dean knelt in the dirt, his fingers trailing through dust, smoke blocking the horizon. He said nothing. He felt nothing but a benumbed cold.

He thought, maybe, he should feel regretful. Ask forgiveness of God, for killing two of his soldiers. After all, they were just. Righteous.

A demon was kept from Rising. Hell was kept from Earth.

Sam was gone. Dean died for him. Dean lived for him. Sam was gone, killed by two angels and their perfect, unquestioned God.

Dean decided, there in the dirt, that he hated God.

Inside him, at the edge of that crater, the second place Sam died, something unfurled. Something dark, not created but instead nurtured in Hell, stirred.

Dean stared unseeing, wondering what to do now. Sam was gone. Dean couldn’t follow him into oblivion. He’d just end up right back in Hell, and Sam wouldn’t be there. Sam wasn’t anywhere.

Uriel’s voice was full of power and conviction when he told Dean that.

The town burned first, and then two angels, and Sam was gone. Really, truly, completely _gone_ , nowhere to be found ever again.

The town burned first, with Sam trapped inside its borders. The town burned first, and Dean wished with all his power he could turn back time, keep it from happening, save Sammy like he always had.

But for all his newfound Hell-powers, time-travel wasn’t one of them.

Dean took a deep breath and slowly rose to his feet. Once fully upright, he rolled his shoulders and back, never taking his gaze from where the town had once been.

Thunder rumbled in the distance, lightning cracking through the sky. Dean breathed, counting his heartbeats.

Dying would serve no purpose. It wouldn’t bring Sam back.

The darkness coiled through his blood. It whispered of what they could do, how to avenge Sammy. How to make God _pay_.

Dean listened. Stood at the edge of the crater, eyes on the center, where Sam had been, and listened to the darkness murmur with his own voice.

Lightning struck the ground next to him, singeing his shirt. Dean didn’t flinch. Another bolt hit his other side, and a third right in front of him. Dean didn’t make a sound, but he raised his eyes to the sky.

The darkness chuckled smoothly, and kept on talking.

Dean hated all existence in that moment, as the cold melted away, replaced with shearing pain and crescendoing rage. The darkness purred, reaching out to soothe him. _Wait, wait,_ it whispered. _Wait, wait. Not yet._

Dean stared at the gray clouds, at the rain pouring down in the distance, and he wanted the world to die. What meaning did life have, without Sammy?

The darkness pulled away in shock. _Wait, wait!_ it shouted, but he shoved it back into that small corner it’d been in since November.

The darkness wanted to wait, to build power slowly, to destroy everything from the inside out, over a long period of time.

Sam was gone, and if Dean couldn’t go to him or bring him back, then he’d just as soon make it so no one else had the people they loved.

He spared a single thought for Haley and her brothers, Lucas and Andrea, Michael and Joanna and Asher, Sarah, Ben and Lisa, and everyone else he and Sammy had saved. They’d die.

But _they_ would go to Heaven, unlike Sammy, who was _gone_.

 _Do not_ , a voice said, deeper than deep, filling the air. _My son, do not do what you think of doing._

Dean did not reply, looking back at the crater.

 _I gave you free will_ , the voice continued. _Do not_.

Dean’s hands trembled. His chest ached. Water built up behind his eyes and slipped down his face.

_Do not do this. For all the pain, is not the pleasure worth it?_

He threw back his head to glare at the heavens.

Dean screamed.

And the sky came tumbling down.

 


	15. phone tag

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title: phone tag  
> Disclaimer: not my characters  
> Warnings: takes place just after 2.5 “Simon Says”  
> Pairings: none  
> Rating: PG  
> Wordcount: 195  
> Point of view: third  
> Prompt: Sam attempts to screen Dean's calls for several days after "Simon Says." Understandably, this drives Dean nuts.

It takes Dean a couple days to catch on, which is embarrassing—but in his defense, it’s been a hard few months.

Sam has answered every phone-call since they left Andy. Doesn’t matter if it’s his cell or Dean’s: he answers them both. Even if he’s already on the phone, he grabs Dean’s cell out of his hands and answers.

“Sam!” Dean finally says, snatching his phone back. “What the fuck, dude?”

Ducking his head, Sam takes his sweet time replying, “I just… worry, is all.”

Dean sighs. “Look, I get it.” And he does. It’s not that fun being an overprotective brother, but it’s been his role to play for nearly thirty years now. Sam’s had his brushes with it—Sue Ann and the heart-attack, and those first weeks after Dad. 

“Just…” He waits until Sam looks up again. “Quit taking my phone, Sam.”

“Okay.” Sam nods. 

The next time Bobby calls, Dean raises an eyebrow as Sam lunges for his phone. Sam jerks to a stop and lowers his hand, shuffling in place. “Hi, Bobby,” Dean says. 

Sam still stands too close, trying to listen in, but Dean’s a master of compromising.


	16. ablation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title: ablation  
> Fandom: “Supernatural”  
> Disclaimer: not my characters; just for fun.  
> Warnings: AU pre-series and post-Bedtime Stories in season 3  
> Pairings: Azazel/Crossroad’s Demon; John/Mary  
> Rating: PG13  
> Wordcount: 3845  
> Point of view: third
> 
> Notes: This story is told piecemeal; it jumps around in time, tense, and point of view.
> 
> Written in 2007

_You ready for this? You ain’t seen nothin’ yet._

 ...

            Before he was born, Sam Winchester dreamed. Oh, all babies do, of course, secure and warm inside their mamas, safe and happy in the quietdark place. They dream of what was and what is and what will be, of the world yet to come and the world that has been.

            All babies dream. But only two people have ever remembered, in the long history of the world. And that? Makes Sam a very special boy indeed.

 .

            It’s a familiar, oft-told story: heroes, quests, villains, death, violence, blood, fire, Right and Good against Wrong and Evil, Mama killed and Papa raising the baby alone.

            Except, there’s two minor differences in this case, anomalies in the story.

            The first? That Sam was secondborn.

            The second? That John Winchester didn’t drown in his cups. Instead of raising frightened boys into belligerent men, he raised warriors.

 .

            And Sam still dreamed. He saw other worlds, what-ifs and could-have-beens; he saw the far past and distant future. As time went on, as he grew and learned, Sam realized how odd the clarity of his dream-recall truly was.

            He kept it to himself, this knowledge, hidden deep inside his most secret place.

            It was frightening—but also exhilarating. All children wish to be different, special. Sam remembered his womb-dreams: he was in a class all his own.

 .

            But what of him being secondborn? How does that change things? There are Chosen, each with a gift. Blood is dribbled on their tongue on a certain night, some mothers are killed and some are not. No gift is repeated; Azazel is too clever for that.

            But each Chosen is a sponge and can soak up other gifts, to varying degrees, and Sam Winchester most of all. United, the Chosen are an undefeatable army. They could take the world with ease.

            And every army needs a general. That’s where Sam comes in.

 .

            John Winchester knew, of course, from the beginning. Mary never lied to the man she loved. He knew she wasn’t normal, but he didn’t care. He adored her.

            She told him the price that came for their time together, but they were young and in love, and the day of reckoning seemed so far away. Dean’s birth shook them back into fear, but nothing happened and life moved on.

            By Sam’s birth, John had forgotten and Mary didn’t even know what night it was until she saw John asleep in the living room.

 .

            Azazel made a mistake. It was easily done and understandable. And so small—such a tiny mistake. But enough.

            Sam remembers every dream he ever had, and he sees the future awake or asleep. He has presence and strength and a sure mind; he knows himself, fully, and accepts all facets as a piece of the whole.

            He, of the Chosen, is the general. Azazel wants him to lead, and he will be excellent.

            Sam is a leader. Dean is a follower. But—and this is where Azazel went wrong—Sam will _always_ follow Dean.

 .

            In Mama’s womb, Baby slept a waking dream. Baby was warm and happy, never hungry or frightened. Baby knew everything was alright.

            Sammy, though, knew what would actually come, and in Mama’s womb he cried.

 .

            Azazel should have marked Dean that night, or killed him. Sam would never be a firstborn, but even as an only child, Azazel could still claim him.

            But Azazel looked at Dean and found him to be no threat.

            A costly mistake.

 .

            Mary held her boys and loved them and sang them lullabies. Her husband John, her firstborn Dean, and the special one: her baby Sam.

            Dean, she saw, had no ability to separate him. But Sam—

            Oh, her poor Sam. He had such a hard road.

 .

            Dad treated Sam like he was a normal boy. At the time, Sam hated it. Looking back, though, he sees he has a lot to be thankful for.

 .

            Azazel wanted a general who would become a figurehead king, and he gifted Sam above all the Chosen.

            He had no place in his plans for Dean. If he’d killed Dean as a child, that wouldn’t have been problem.

But Sam is a loyal boy. And by the time Azazel comes back for him, twenty-two years after the Marking, Sam’s loyalty is placed firmly on Dean.

 .

            And therein lies what Sam being secondborn _really_ means.

            None of the rest of Azazel’s Chosen had to split. He either ruined their childhoods and twisted them irrevocably or he took them as adults who had strained relationships because of their unavoidable oddness.

            But Sam Winchester was the only one with a sibling who wasn’t gifted. Even Andrew Gallagher’s brother, his elder twin Ansem, had an ability.

            But Dean? He was as normal as they come.

            Even if the world kept bending around him, finding ways to keep him alive.

            And that? Can be fully blamed on Sam.

 .

            Sam dreamed in Mama’s womb. He knew what all would come long before he had the words to express it. And he remembered after he left the quietdark safety and fell screaming into the world.

 .

            Azazel wanted a general. Instead he got Sam Winchester, a man who knew every twist and turn of the future, every secret of the past.

            Azazel killed Sam’s parents and lover, stole all of Sam’s hopes for tomorrow. Azazel never worried about Dean. He believed the boy who had no ability would never be a threat.

            But Dean grew and learned, becoming a warrior of unsurpassed skill. He cared for people on the whole, but loved only his family. If given a choice between his family or a town of innocents, he’d pick his father and brother every time.

            Azazel never understood that Sam felt the same for Dean.

 .

            Mary told John once that she never feared tomorrow because she knew with surety that Sam would never be alone.

 .

            John taught his boys to track, to hunt, to fight, to shoot, to kill. Sam always dragged his feet, but Dean soaked up every lesson.

            Sam knew the future, if only he could find the memories. Dean remembered the past, his childhood with Mama and Daddy, and he swore as his father and brother slept that he would always keep them safe.

 .

            Azazel came for Sam in the night, a year after Dad. Dean failed and Sam was lost.

            Dean found his little brother just in time to hold Sam as he died.

 .

            Sam dreamed in the womb. As Death draws him close, he dreams again.

            _Let me go_ , he tries to tell his big brother.

            Dean cannot hear him, and wouldn’t listen if he could. He promises, no matter the cost, to bring Sam back home.

 .

            Azazel learned only after his Chosen general returned to the world exactly why he should have killed Dean.

            It was always war and he died, destroyed by a boy he’d never imagined a threat.

            But they, the remaining Winchesters, were still caught in his plan, two struggling flies in a giant spider web.

 .

            Sam dreams of a time before, when Mama whirled around the kitchen, holding him her arms, laughter spiraling to the sky. Daddy picked Dean up and they danced together, so happy it makes him weep for the loss.

 .

            Sam died. He was dead for almost a day. Mom met him at the gate with a sad smile. “Not yet,” she said. “You can’t come in now.”

            He looked past her, at the golden streets and bejeweled buildings. “It’s beautiful,” he mused. “But so cold.”

            Mom stared up at him, lifting a hand to his face. He nuzzled into the touch, the only time he can remember feeling her skin on his. “You won’t be alone, Sam,” she said. “Let him keep you.”

            Sam nodded. Mom knew, too.

 .

            _Tell me_ , the demon—Azazel—whispers in the night.  _Are you sure what you brought back is completely Sam?  
_            Dean watches the shadows on the ceiling and listens to Sam breathe.

_What’s dead should stay dead, Dean. You said it yourself._

            “Dean,” Sam says softly.

            He rolls over to look at Sam; Sam’s eyes gleam in the darkness.

            “Go back to sleep, man,” Dean says. “Long day tomorrow.”

            “Dean,” Sam repeats.

            “I know, dude,” he says. “Me, too.”

 .

            Azazel wanted a puppet, someone he could manipulate, someone he could control.

            Instead he got someone so immensely strong the oldest demon in existence followed his command.

            Azazel wasn’t around to see that, though.

 .

            “Just tell me who you are,” Sam says.

            Ruby puts him off.

            “Just tell me who you are,” he repeats.

            She deflects.

            “Just _tell me who you are_!” he demands and Ruby answers, “Fine,” blinking her eyes to show the inky darkness.      

            Lucifer smirks up at the boy-king, her replacement, her heir, and finds him beautifully charming.

 .

            The dealmaker and Azazel were lovers. Demons _do_ love, you know. They were together before Christ’s birth, wreaking havoc in what would one day be the Americas.

            The dealmaker’s name is lost; only Azazel ever used it and he called her an ancient word for _Dove_ most often.

            When Dean murdered Azazel, the dealmaker felt hollow. Anger came a short while later. She’d already made the deal, or she’d have taken him then.

            Thousands of years together, and suddenly she couldn’t feel Azazel anymore. He was completely gone, out of reach. She stretched for him, but he wasn’t there. He wasn’t anywhere.

            Dean Winchester, that boy he never thought about for more than half a moment, killed Azazel, the strongest demon in creation.

            Ruby, that damned upstart who’d claimed to be Lucifer, had plans that tangled with Azazel. The dealmaker knew she would ruin what Azazel died for, and that could _not_ be allowed.

            But Sam Winchester, Azazel’s Chosen, Azazel’s favorite, brother of Azazel’s destroyer, killed Azazel’s bride.

 .

            Dean’s time is running out and Sam has no idea what to do. He knows that he knows how to get Dean free, but he can’t find the way. It’s in his head somewhere, hidden in his mind.

            He dreamed of this, tucked safe and warm inside Mama. He saw Dean’s stupid deal, but he didn’t remember ‘til it happened, and that pisses him off. He has all this information but he can’t access it. It’s there, but he can’t reach out and touch it.

            Dean’s accepted his lot, but Sam hasn’t. Dean is ready and willing to go because he thinks his purpose is done: Sam’s alive.

            But Sam knows better, knows that without Dean, he’ll probably become what Azazel wanted, what Ruby still wants.

 .

            Heaven didn’t let him in. He wonders if Heaven will go to war for Dean’s soul.

 .

            Two days left of Dean’s year, a measly forty-eight hours, and Sam wakes with the knowledge found.

            He rolls over, stares at Dean’s peacefully sleeping form, and laughs.

            That crossroad’s bitch. She knew. But Dean killed Azazel, so she was in no mood to share.

 .

            Mary kissed Dean after tucking him in every night of his life before November. She told him something with a soft smile, cupping his cheek, infusing the words with promise. Twenty-three years down the road, he only remembers part of the message.

_Angels are watching over you, my sweet, angels with darkened wings._

 .

            John told Dean a half-truth and knew Dean would never do it. As he walked away, he wanted to ask forgiveness.

            But he steeled himself because Azazel had no mercy and no idea what Dean brought to the table.

            No demon had ever truly understood a human’s capacity for selfless devotion. Most humans didn’t even understand how deeply Dean’s love for his brother ran.

            But John did. He’d helped craft it. And he died with the hope in his heart that it would be enough, because it was the last hope left.

 .

            A day left of Dean’s year and he watches the sun rise. He doesn’t know what’s coming; Sam killed the dealmaker, but she didn’t hold the contract. So who will claim him and lead him to Hell?

            He’s happy—Sam’s safe. All the demons are back in Hell and he’s leaving no unfinished business. He’s given everything to Sam, like he always has.

            He’ll go willingly with whatever comes for him, because he’s done.

 .

            In Mama’s womb, Sam saw the end of the world. It isn’t fire or ice, or even human activity. One day, every living thing just dies. God lets it happen, then repopulates the Earth with his chosen, those beings of Heaven.

            In Mama’s womb, Sam didn’t understand. Now, a man grown, he does.

 .

            Heaven’s gate did not open for him when he died.

            So he forces it open, Colt in one hand, and strides down the golden street. Mama watches in silence, neither condemning nor agreeing, and Dad holds her close. He nods as Sam passes.

            Dean’s asleep back on Earth, in a cheap motel, sedated almost into a coma. Sam’ll deal with that fallout when Dean wakes up to realize that the year is done and only Sam came for him.

            Ruby follows Sam with dainty steps, her demon-killing knife sheathed at her hip.

            What Sam remembers that he always knew is that it’s not the weapon that kills. It’s the intent behind it.

            Lucifer is god of demons because none of them believe she ever lived. Ruby was cast from Hell centuries ago for daring to say she was the LightBringer. 

            Lucifer hasn’t set foot in Heaven since she dared demand worship. Now she docilely follows Azazel’s Chosen.

            She understands humans in a way no other angel, fallen or pure, ever has.

            “Samuel,” God’s voice booms. “What are you doing?”  
            Archangels line up, flaming swords held loosely in their magnificent fists, glorious wings ready to catapult them forward for the killing blow.

            Only two children have ever remembered their womb-dreams, and one of them is Son of God. Sam cannot claim that title.

            “I’m here for the world, Yahweh,” Sam says, the words ringing clearly off Heaven’s precious stones, the angels flinching as he dares utter God’s holy name. “Give me the Earth and I’ll go.”

            God appears before him, an old dark-skinned man in a white robe. “Why do you want Earth?” God asks.

            Sam is at ease, as is God, but the angels and Ruby spoil for a fight.

            “Why is _that_ here?” Uriel hisses, eyes on the first of the fallen.

            Ruby grins. “I follow Sam,” she says, shifting on her feet. “Does that bother you?”  
            God tells them, “Silence.” Uriel subsides. Ruby shrugs.

            “You will destroy it in a few millennia,” Sam says, ignoring everything but God. “I don’t want that to happen.”

            God straightens, fire billowing in his eyes. “I am the Creator, boy,” he says, Heaven trembling beneath their feet. “My will is all that matters.”

            Ruby’s glee is palpable as Sam raises the Colt and utters one word. 

“Wrong.”

 .

            It is a swift, brutal war. Demons stream through the destroyed gate and battle angels. Anything that gets too close to Sam with intent to kill turns to dust.

            Finally, only Jesus and Sam stand on the tarnished street. Most of Heaven’s citizens have fled; John and Mary are down the way, watching, guarded by Sam’s power and blood. Demons crouch on the edge, captive angels waiting for Sam’s judgment.

            “What do you want, Samuel Winchester?” the Lamb of Heaven asks quietly, brown eyes full of sorrow. 

            “I want Earth,” Sam repeats. “I will leave you Heaven and all your folk, so long as you swear fealty to me.”

            Jesus gazes around Heaven, at the blood and destruction. “Very well,” he says. “Take Earth. Leave me what remains of Heaven and I will never make war on you.”

 .

            Azazel had plans. He would rule from behind the throne, the true power. Sam was meant to be easily manipulated after he came out on top.

            But he wasn’t. He was weak and let Jake Talley kill him. He died. Because of Dean, Sam came back.

            Azazel had not planned on that. When he realized his Chosen had gone and gotten himself killed, he called his wife and told her that if Dean Winchester summoned her, to make the deal.

            “Gladly,” she said. “I owe that arrogant pup a thing or two.”  
            So Azazel thought he had won, despite Sam’s spectacular failure. Darkness encroached on Sam’s edges, blossoming in his cold-blooded murder of his own murderer. Sam took one giant step toward Azazel in that graveyard, Jake’s lifeblood dotting his face.

            And then Dean got a hold of the Colt, and Azazel was not faster than a speeding bullet.

            Azazel had no room in the master-plan for Dean Winchester, the normal human, and his last thought was _Damn_. 

 .

            Sam led his forces back to Hell and told Ruby, “Resume Lucifer.”

            She smiled and shed the skin. All the demons stepped back, awed. Sam turned to look over them, the survivors. “This is Lucifer, Lord of Hell,” he said. They knelt and he continued, “ _I_ am King.”

            Lucifer howled loyalty, her chilling voice rolling across Hell’s plains.

            “Do as you like with Hell,” Sam commanded. “But only leave if I summon you.”

            The demons spread out, exhilarant with their sweeping victory in Heaven.

            “Azazel did not intend this,” Lucifer said, voice deep and dark, now larger than Sam. “He would not be glad of this end.”

            Sam laughed. “It doesn’t matter now. I am King of Heaven and Hell.” He smiled at his lieutenant, the oldest demon in existence. “Stay here, LightBringer, Lord of Hell. Come to me only if I summon you.”

            Lucifer inclined her head respectfully. “As you say, King, Lion of All.”

 .

            Dean wakes long after sunrise. Sam is leaning against the window, looking out. Dean yawns, sitting up. There’s something he should be remembering. “Time’s it?” he asks, throat sore. He rubs at his neck.

            “’bout eleven,” Sam answers quietly.

            Dean cocks his head, straining for the date, but it’s out of reach. He studies the set of Sam’s shoulders. “What’s wrong?”  
            Sam laughs. “I did a bad thing this morning,” he says.

            Dean rolls out of bed and pads over. The carpet is rough on his feet and the air cold on his skin, and there is something he should be remembering, but his focus is completely on Sam. “What’d you do?” He doesn’t think it’ll be that awful—Sam probably took the car and ran a stop sign, or something.

            “I led the army of Hell into Heaven.” Sam doesn’t look over. “I killed God with the Colt. I reinstated Lucifer as Lord of Hell.” He laughs and it sounds slightly mad. “I am the King, Dean. I am the Lion of All.”

            Dean can’t think of a thing to say. Finally, “Are you joking?” bursts out of him. “That’s not funny, Sam.”

            Sam turns, face serious and solemn. “No, it’s not,” he agrees, and the date screams into Dean’s head. “It’s not funny at all.”

 .

            In Mama’s womb, the Son of God spoke to Sam.  _Father will not give you what you want,_ the Lamb of Heaven said.

            Sam, the Lion of All, asked, _And you will?_  
            Jesus paused. Sam waited.

            _I gave it to you already_. Jesus’ voice was filled with love.  _I gave you Dean_.

 .

            Azazel did not plan for Dean; nor did God. He slipped into life, a gift of one special boy to another, and only those two knew his true, boundless worth.

 .

            As Dean rants at Sam for sedating him and storming Heaven, as Dean runs out of words and sinks onto the bed in wonder and horror, Sam turns his inward gaze to Heaven and whispers, _Thank you_.

            Jesus, on the golden street, trying to calm his people, replies, _You are welcome, my brother of spirit._

            It could have been so much worse, and they both know it.

            _Forgive me?_ Sam asks, basking in Dean’s presence.

            There is a pause before Jesus answers, _Yes_.

            “Sam.” Dean’s voice is gentle, just this side of lost. “What…”

            Sam kneels in front of him and looks up to meet his eyes. “I’m still me, Dean,” he reassures his brother. “I just now know what all that means.” He reaches up slowly to touch Dean’s face.

            Dean does not pull away.

 .

            Mary told John, curled up in his arms after their first love-making, _My son will rule creation._

            John rubbed her arm.  _Okay_ , he agreed, mostly asleep.

            She laid her head over his heart, listening.  _He will be a good man_ , she whispered.  _He will be._

 .

            Lucifer waited for centuries after Azazel led the coup in Hell, casting her out. She waited and she watched the traitor’s plan unfold.

            She howled with mirth when Azazel died, killed by her brother’s selfless gift. And she knew then that she must act, must throw in her lot with the Lion, the man who would be King.

            Lucifer understands humans. That is why she refused to bow before them in Heaven. She knows they are not better than angels or demons, nor are they less.

            They simply are.

 .

            Dean doesn’t know what to think or do. He stares at Sam, mind racing, trying to think of something to say. Anything at all.

            “God’s really real?” It isn’t what he meant, but it’ll do.

            Sam laughs. “Was.”

            Dean nods, completely at a loss.

            “I left Jesus in charge of Heaven. Lucifer’s rulin’ Hell.” Sam licks his lips and Dean can’t look away from his haunted, terrified eyes. “But I’m their boss.”

            “You,” Dean says. “My geeky kid brother. The higher-up of the highest-ups. God’s killer.”

            Sam ducks his head. “Please don’t hate me, Dean.” He lets his arm fall away, back to his side. “Please don’t hate me.”

            This is Sammy. This man, this monster. This is Sammy, who wanted Lucky Charms and always gave Dean the prize. This is Sammy, of too-long hair and skinned knees, of puppy eyes and temper tantrums. This is Sammy, the baby he kissed goodnight in Mom’s last moments alive.

            This is Sammy.

            “I could never hate you.” Dean is sure of that. “Now get up, ‘cause you’re startin’ to freak me out.”

            Relief sweeps Sam’s face and he rises from his knees, settling too close beside Dean on the bed.  Dean doesn’t move.

            “So, now what?” Dean asks.

            He feels Sam shrug. “Whatever you want. We could hunt—all the demons are back in Hell, but ghosts are still around.”

            Dean bites his lip. He suspects, but—“If you killed God, why didn’t everything end?”  
            Sam stiffens before breathing deeply. “I took his place.”

            Dean has nothing to say to that except, “Okay.”

 .

            Azazel’s Chosen was quite the special boy. But not quite the way Azazel meant. Azazel wanted to rule Heaven, Earth, and Hell unopposed, with Sam Winchester as his figurehead.

            But something went wrong in Azazel’s plan.

            Jesus, Lamb of Heaven, gave Sam a big brother, a mere human boy. And Azazel overlooked the child, allowing him to keep his life.

            A simple, tiny mistake.

           A fatal one.


	17. in Texas, the talk turned to outlaws

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title: in Texas, the talk turned to outlaws  
> Fandom: “Supernatural”  
> Disclaimer: not my characters; title from David Allen Coe.   
> Warnings: takes place during season two  
> Pairings: none   
> Rating: PG  
> Wordcount: 260  
> Point of view: third  
> Prompt: exacerbate

“You’re not helping the situation,” Sam hisses out the side of his mouth.

His brother, of course, just grins that cocky, _can’t touch me_ grin that has annoyed Sam since the ninth grade and drawls to the police chief, “There a problem, officer? I’d sure hate to be a problem.”

The chief is neither impressed nor placated. “You’re comin’ in, boy,” he says. His gaze swings to include Sam. “The both of you. Your car was reported at three crime scenes and the desecrated grave.” 

Dean’s smirk doesn’t fade. “Was it now?”

The chief’s face is stone. “Yes.”

Raising a brow, Dean looks at Sam.

Sam sighs.

“Sir,” he tries, “we have pressing business elsewhere. We really—”

“Save it,” the chief interrupts. “Whoever you are, I don’t care. Where you gotta be, I care even less. You’re suspects, or at least there’s somethin’ wrong in your brains. You’re comin’ in.”

Dean moves and the chief pulls his gun, a draw as fast as Dad’s had been. But his attention is off Sam for a moment, and that’s all the time Sam needs.

“I’m really sorry about this, sir,” he says honestly, gently tightening the gag. “We’ll call it in half an hour out of town, but I’m sure someone will miss you before then.”

The chief’s glare doesn’t lessen. Dean’s smirk hasn’t since he walked in the room, all official and no-nonsense. 

“Hey,” Dean calls as he shuts the door, “tell Henriksen I said hi, yeah?”

Sam smacks him upside the head. Dean chuckles and peels out the parking lot.


	18. newborn hope, unjaded

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title: newborn hope, unjaded  
> Fandom: “Supernatural”  
> Disclaimer: not my characters; just for fun. Title from “Wait” by Sarah Mclachlan.  
> Warnings: AU in a major way; implied sexual child abuse  
> Pairings: mostly gen, with a hint of underaged non-con slash  
> Rating: PG13  
> Wordcount: 400  
> Point of view: third
> 
> Prompt: In a different world, Dean is killed by a wendigo when he's seventeen and Sam leads a demon army ten years later.  
> Notes: yes, the names are intentional.

It wasn’t Dean’s first hunt, or even his tenth. He’d gone on plenty of hunts with Dad, each more dangerous than the one before. This was just another, in a long line.   
  
It was also his last.  
  
.  
  
John never forgave himself, and doubted Mary did, either. He knew for fact that Sam didn’t, never ever would.  
  
Dean was only seventeen when John led him to his death, a baby, just a boy. So young. John drowned his pain and self-loathing in alcohol, with no Dean to pull him out this time. He couldn’t even bear to look at Sammy, didn’t think himself worthy.  
  
He’d lost Sam’s big brother. He’d failed his sons, both of them.  
  
.  
  
Sam kept to himself for the few months it took Dad to die. He didn’t speak, barely ate, just sat staring at the floor or the walls or the sky.  
  
After Dad died, Sam was put in a home and just didn’t care about anything anymore.  
  
.  
  
When the yellow-eyed shadow showed up in his dreams, Sam didn’t even notice, at first. When it whispered at him to do things, terrible things, he resisted, a bit, but it all seemed so easy, so harmless.  
  
Mr. Jack had been touching him, so it was no great loss when Sam killed him. Ms. Rose, Mr. Jack’s wife, had looked the other way for years before Sam was sent to them—no telling how many kids she’d damned with her negligence. Sam killed her, too.  
  
The shadow was happy with him, proud of him, promised him great things. The shadow only ever asked him for things that weren’t too hard, that helped people… _Punish the guilty,_ the shadow said. _Protect the innocent.  
  
_Sam was moved to another home; those parents needed punishing, too. Sam was sent to a hospital, just until the authorities figured out what was wrong with him; the doctor was mean, so Sam dealt with him.  
_  
You don’t need adults anymore, Sam,_ the shadow told him. _Come home with me_.  
  
So Sam did.  
  
.  
  
Ten years after Dean died—and the pain still ached in what was left of Sam’s soul—Sam stepped out of Hell.  
  
At his back stood his father’s hordes, all ready and willing to take on the world. Sam stared out over the landscape, studying where he once lived.  
  
“Get ‘em,” he said, and Father’s army streamed around him, with loud, echoing howls.

 


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title: Behind our lullabies, the hooves of terrible horses thunder and drum  
> Fandom: “Supernatural”  
> Disclaimer: not my characters; just for fun. Title from Carol Ann Duffy.   
> Warnings: takes place between “The Benders” and “Shadow” in season one  
> Pairings: none  
> Rating: PG  
> Wordcount: 960  
> Point of view: third  
> Prompt: horse
> 
> Written in 2009

 

They were hunting a ghost horse in Montana, a beast that hadn’t killed anyone yet but cost thousands dollars in damages and broken a few bones.

 

“How, _exactly_ ,” Sam demanded as Dean drove them into town, “do we find the bones of a horse?”

 

Dean shrugged.

 

.

 

They spent days researching, with no results at all.  They walked the haunted property in the afternoons, also with no results.

 

Sam woke up at two in the morning on Sunday, and Dean was gone.  The impala was still parked outside the room, but Dean wasn’t anywhere to be found.  It was two in the morning and Dean was gone without a word.

 

Sam didn’t panic.  He got dressed and first checked out the car—maybe Dean had been jumped while heading out for a drive—but there was no evidence of anything.  He wasn’t panicking, but the last time they’d been separated, they’d both almost been killed by inbred cannibals.  He called Dean’s phone, but it rang in his duffle in the room.

 

“Shit, Dean,” he muttered.  “Where are you?”

 

He leaned against the impala, rested his head on the cool roof.  Where could Dean have gone?

 

And then Sam remembered how Dean stared out at the haunted field. 

 

“You didn’t,” Sam said.  “Damnit, Dean!”

 

.

 

He pulled up just off the property.  There were no lights but the impala’s, star, and moon.  Sam didn’t know where to start.  Nearly five hundred acres, the horse had shown up on.  And if Sam couldn’t find him, the horse would probably kill Dean.

 

Sam grabbed the shotgun and went hunting.

 

.

 

“Dean!” he yelled.  “Dean!”  He shone the flashlight on the ground to keep sure footing.  He’d been looking for almost an hour.  “Dean!”

 

He heard a faint whooping and froze, straining to listen.  It came again, from the west.  He took off in that direction, following the sound; the closer he got, he heard others—hoofbeats thundering, horses bugling, and Dean’s laughter, soaring above it all.

 

“Dean!”  Sam turned in place.  He could hear so much, but nothing was in sight.  “Dean!”

 

The horses appeared in the distance, galloping toward him, glowing bright as starlight.  He didn’t run, didn’t move, just watched them come.

 

Dean rode on the lead horse, lit up by the herd’s glow.  He passed Sam on the left and the rest streamed around him without stirring a speck of dust.  He turned to follow them with his eyes and they vanished into the air, until only the lead horse and Dean remained.

 

They circled around and galloped to him, past him, circled again.  “Dean!” he called, hands tight on his gun.  He’d dropped the flashlight when he first saw the herd.  “C’mon, Dean, wake up!”

 

Dean’s laughter floated over the still Montana air.  The horse tossed its head, mane billowing out and resettling.  It pawed at the dirt before loping some more.

 

“Dean!”  He screamed his brother’s name as loud as he could and it echoed out over the plain.

 

In the distance, the horse stopped.  Bright, gleaming, a phantasm of the past with his brother on its back—it turned and he yelled again. “Dean!”

 

Dean patted the horse’s phantom neck.  “It’s okay, sweetheart,” he said.  Sam heard him clearly in the silence of the night.  “You need to move on with your family now.”

 

The horse nickered as Dean swung down; then it spun around and vanished into the distance, leaving only the moon and stars to light up the landscape.

 

Sam stormed up to Dean and grabbed his shoulders.  “What the hell were you doing?” he demanded, shaking Dean.

 

Dean laughed, clapping Sam on the shoulder.  “She just wanted someone to run with her, Sammy,” he said.  “She’s gone now—they all are.”  He glanced in the direction the ghosts went.  “I wish—”  His voice trailed off.

 

Just before Sam panicked that his brother would follow the herd, Dean shook himself out of it.  “Where’s the car?”

 

“Um,” Sam said.  “The driveway?”

 

He ducked as Dean swatted at him.  “You walked all around the haunted acres?  You tryin’ to get stampeded on?”

 

Sam gaped.  “You joined the ghosts!” he shot back.  “You have no room to talk.  At all.  Ever again.”

 

“I’m sorry,” Dean said softly. “I just—I had to go.  She was waiting outside and I couldn’t stop.  I had to see her, and then I couldn’t go back in to wake you.”

 

Sam responded, “’s’kay.  Just—let’s not do this again.”

 

Dean chuckled sadly.  “They were the last, Sammy.  She just wanted a human who understood.”

 

Sam stared at him.  “Dean,” he said.  “What happened?”

 

He shrugged.  “It doesn’t matter anymore.  They’ve moved on to whatever comes next.”  He glanced around.  “Let’s camp here.  We’ll head back to the car at sunup.”

 

“Camp?” Sam asked, letting Dean’s deflection work for now.  “All I have are a gun and a flashlight.”

 

“Well,” Dean told him, face lit up by gentle moonlight, “all I need is the ground and the sky.”

 

Sam stared at him as Dean flopped down, stretching out on the grassy dirt.

 

“Dean,” he tried, settling next to him.  “Did—as a kid, did you ever ride a horse?”

 

“Nope,” Dean answered quietly.  “I always wanted to, but never got the chance.”

 

“You looked good,” Sam said.  “Natural.” Thinking back, it frightened him how _right_ Dean seemed at that ghost mare.  Like they’d ride off into the horizon and never come back.

 

But Sam had called his name and Dean told the horse to go on without him, and Sam took comfort in that.

 

At sunup, though, Sam decided, he’d kick Dean’s ass for leaving him in that room to go play with ghosts.


	20. cut just like a knife

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title: cut just like a knife  
> Fandom: “Supernatural”  
> Disclaimer: not my characters. just for fun. Title from Cyndi Thomson’s “What I Really Meant To Say.”  
> Warnings: takes place during “Born Under A Bad Sign.” And I may have fudged the timeline a bit, sorry. implied rape, threats of rape  
> Rating: PG13  
> Wordcount: 1020  
> Point of view: third
> 
> Written in 2007

Between one blink and the next, Sam’s body quits responding to him. He’s got the take-out bag of burgers in one hand, two bottles of water in the other, and he’s half a block from the motel room where Dean’s waiting. He goes to take another step and his foot doesn’t move. He tries to inhale and his respiratory system fails. He can hear a rushing sound, like a river—and then nothing but demented laughter.  
  
_Hello, Sammy,_ a sexless voice says.  _Miss me?_  
  
He can’t place it, has no idea who the speaker is. He tries to reply but nothing’s working, and then his hands drop the food and one of the bottles in the closest trash can and his feet are taking him away from the motel, away from Dean, and Sam realizes he’s been possessed.  
__  
Oh, **fuck** , he thinks, and the demon laughs again.

  
.  
  
By the time he’s out of the city limits, Sam’s figured out who the demon is.  _I thought we **killed** you,_ he hisses, watching his hands break into a car and hotwire it. It’s some old Bug, god-awful, something he’d never choose on his own. He’s surprised he even fits in it. For half a heartbeat, he thinks of Ava.  
__  
You thought wrong, Sammy, Meg chortles. _I’m stronger than that, stronger than you, way stronger than big brother._  
  
Why _are you back?_ he asks, striving in vain to make his body do **anything**.  _Part of the plan?_

 _  
No_ , she dismisses.  _Fuck the plan. I just want to punish you. And that bastard brother of yours._

  
Sam takes satisfaction in saying, _We really pissed you off, huh? Beaten by two **humans**._

  
But Meg swats at him with something and suddenly he can’t see out of his eyes or feel anything on his skin, can’t smell or hear, but then her voice echoes around the black void he’s in, laughing, _Nothing human about you, Sammy. And even less in_ **him**.  
  
.

 

The next time Sam knows anything, he’s kicking the crap out of some guy he’s never seen before in his life. And then he’s holding a knife in one hand and the guy’s head in the other, and the blade tears through skin like it’s not even there, and Sam’s howling and howling, and Meg hisses, _Get_ **_that_** _blood off your hands, Sammy-boy._  
  
And then nothing.   
  
.

 

When he’s aware again, it’s daylight and Meg is smoking. She lets him taste, and its bitter ashes on his tongue. He wants to choke, to gag, to claw into his skin and tissue, tear her out of him.

  
But nothing listens to him. He’s shrieking himself hoarse—if he fucking **had** a fucking  **voice** —in some deep back corner of his mind and everything, every appendage, every particle of every tissue is ignoring **him**.

  
This is **his** body but she’s made it **hers**.

  
After he stops screaming, he realizes he can hear her prattling on to some girl with his voice—and the girl can’t be more than sixteen, if that, and Sam is horrified, but it’s distant—like he’s watching on TV, maybe.

 _  
No_ , he begs in a whisper.  _Please, God, **no**._

 _  
God’s not here, Sam_ , she laughs and kisses the girl’s neck with his lips, shoving him back into the darkness. He can’t see, can’t hear—but she lets him feel. She makes him feel everything.

     
.        

  
And then he hears Dean’s voice and he screams for Dean to not come, begs every deity he can remember, but he knows Dean will find a way.

 __  
The two’a ya sent me back to Hell, Sam, Meg explains. _It kinda sucked. Dad was ripping out Dean’s heart for the offense—he’s never been very creative. But me? I’m thinking Dean will kill you, if I push him far enough. After all, he thinks I’m dead, right? And Johnny’s words are ringing loud in his ears._  
  
She settles deeper into him, if that’s possible, and sighs.  _It’s never been this satisfying, felt this good. You have a strong body, Sam. I think I’ll keep it, after._

  
He snarls incoherently and tries to expel her with sheer will alone, and the bitch fucking **laughs**.

 __  
It’ll destroy him, Sammy. After he pulls that trigger, I’ll reveal it all. Can you imagine the light in his eyes dying—oh, it’ll be **glorious**. And she **cackles**.  
  
_Please, stop_ , he whispers.  _Please, do whatever you want to_ **me** , but **let Dean go**.

  
And she uses his voice to laugh, makes his voice say, “Dean’s **mine** , Sam.”

  
And she makes him remember that young, tiny, **breakable** girl.

   
.

 

He stays in the dark until she’s knocked Dean unconscious, but then he’s shoved to the front.

 _  
Look at him lying there, Sammy_ , she murmurs.  _Isn’t he just the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen?_

  
Dread curls through him, dawning horror, and fear. In his whole life, he’s never felt so terrified. 

 _  
No_ , he says.  ** _No_** _. I won’t let you._

  
Her laughter is dark, and then she tells him, _Maybe later._

  
And then she tosses him back into the void.

  
. 

 

He’s awake the entire time Meg’s tormenting Jo. He stays silent, waiting for Meg to drop her defenses, but she never does.

  
And it isn’t until Meg is using every ounce of his size that Sam realizes he’s spent most of the last eight years trying to appear smaller.

  
Because Jo is tiny in his grip, fragile, and Meg is going to die if the last thing Sam ever does is kill her evil, demonic ass.

  
For one absolutely terrifying second, Sam thinks Meg might use his body to rape Jo. It’s sweet relief he feels when she doesn’t.

  
And then Dean’s there, and Meg shoves Sam away, locks him deep down in his mind, and no matter how hard he fights, how loud he screams, he can’t find the way out.

 

.  
  
But then he hears a gunshot and a splash and Meg’s howl of triumph. And he sees the empty dock, and Meg’s laughing and cackling, and she says, _This is so much better._

  
And Sam doesn’t even have the solace of closing his eyes.

 

 


	21. fate defied

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title: fate defied  
> Fandom: Supernatural  
> Disclaimer: not my characters  
> Warnings: starts during The Benders; AU pre-series; goes AU during Devil’s Trap; violence/death  
> Pairings: John/Mary  
> Point of view: third  
> Wordcount: 1590
> 
> Written in 2009

“You ever killed before?” the sick fucker asked.

            Dean thought about that for a split-second.  They had Sam locked in a cage, and Kathleen.  They wanted to hunt Sammy, then carve him up.

            “Yeah,” he answered quietly, all pretenses shoved away.  “I’ve killed.”

            He focused his gaze on the girl, meeting her eyes.  She fought, but her will was weak and her little blade went into her brother’s belly quite nicely.  The others turned, shock and dismay on their faces.

            The little girl was crying.  Dean let her go and focused on the second brother.  His large, strong hands twisted his father’s neck—the snap of breaking bone sounded beautiful.

            _Tell me_ , Dean said gently.  _Is there anyone else here?_

            The brother shook his head, his sobs joining the girl’s.  Dean smiled and had the man lean down so she could stab his throat.

            _Untie me_ , Dean said.  _Where’s the key to the cages?_

            After he was free, key in hand, Dean told her to wait an hour and burn the house down around her.

 

.

 

            Sam and Kathleen wanted to check the house.  Dean said, _No.  We go back to town._

            Kathleen gave them a lift.  After he and Sam hit the state line, he called in an anonymous tip.

 

.

 

            It’d been years since Dean used his ability.  Not since Cold Oak.   Once they were safely away, Dean forced it back down.  Let Sam think he was the only freak in the family.

 

.

 

            The yellow-eyed man haunted his dreams that night.  Whispered false promises, spewed out lies.

_My favorite surprise.  So strong.  We’ll go far together.  C’mon, Deano.  Wasn’t that fun?_

            Five others had been in that town with him.  He killed them all by having them kill each other.  He refused to die so far away from Dad and Sammy.  He refused to vanish and leave them wondering.

            The telekinetic attacked him first and he could read that the others had determined just as hard to live—firestarter, weather manipulator, seer, healer.

            _One down_ , he’d thought, looking at the telekinetic’s body.

            None of them had any experience beyond a year’s freakishness.  Dean’d been dealing with the unexplained since he was a boy. 

            He refused to die in Cold Oak and the yellow-eyed man wouldn’t let him leave until he was last freak standing.

            Those five kids weren’t his first kills.  And he never regretted them. They wanted to kill him.  He was just better.

 

.

 

            In that cabin with Sammy and their demon-possessed father, Dean finally saw the masterplan.  

            The yellow-eyed demon wanted him and Sam to battle it out for the throne.

            Smoke can’t be shot with a bullet that kills anything.  But Sam said the demon had a body in Rosie’s nursery.

            Dean refused to murder his brother or father.  He saw only one way out and that was to reveal what he was.  What he’d done.

            Sam’s ability went deeper than visions and a quick bout of telekinesis.  He was a sponge, or a mirror.

            _Sam_ , Dean called.  He reached past the demon’s hold on his little brother’s body and matched it.  The demon— _Azazel_ , its mind whispered, Satan’s flag-bearer, Lucifer’s most loyal disciple—still believed it had a grip on Sammy and Dean knew it wouldn’t be fooled for long.

            _Sam_ , Dean whispered again, already straining.  _When I say, shoot it._

            Dean looked into those cold yellow eyes and said, _Get out of my father’s body_.

            The shock was magnificent.  Azazel listened and spewed from Dad’s mouth.  Dean kept his eyes on the smoke and said, _Manifest a body_.  As it did, Dean told Sam, “Pick up the Colt.”

            Dad stared at him but Dean couldn’t focus on that.  All his will went to trapping Mom’s murderer.

            _Dean_ , the demon tried as it formed into a man’s shape.

            “Shoot it,” Dean said.

            When Sam pulled the trigger, Dean guided his aim to the demonic version of a heart.

            Dean slumped down, more exhausted than he’d ever been.  He let his eyes close, wanting nothing more than to sleep for a month.

            He felt Sam and Dad kneel next to him, and didn’t care what came next.

            _Dean_ , Sam whispered.  _Don’t worry_.

 

.

 

            When Dean woke up, it surprised him.  Sam slept in the chair by his bed and Dad stood leaning against the wall.

            “I didn’t think you were one,” Dad said.  “I knew about Sam, but…”

            “The demon didn’t plan on me,” Dean explained, licking his lips.  “Water?”

            Dad held a glass to his lips.  “You were a surprise?”

            Dean raised an eyebrow, smirking up at him.  “Surprised you and Mom, too, didn’t I?”

            Nodding, Dad chuckled.

            “I’m not one of his special kids, Dad. He didn’t bleed in me.  Didn’t even know about me till Cold Oak.” Dean lowered his head, trying to stretch his spine without moving anything that hurt through the fuzzy drugs.

            “So, where did your…” Dad trailed off, unable to finish the question.

            “Same place as Missouri, I guess,” he answered.

            “What, exactly, did you do to Azazel?” Dad asked.

            Dean took a deep breath.  “I can force my will on other… well, I guess it’s not just people,” he said.  “I don’t really think of it as mind control or telepathy, and I don’t have to use my voice or make eye contact.”  He paused.  “Can I have more water?”

            He was able to hold the glass himself this time.  Dad stared at him warily and asked, “What else?”

            Dean sighed and handed the empty glass back.  “I can sense people’s intentions.  Their limits.  I can’t change their personalities or dreams, just their actions.”  He looked Dad in the eye.  “I’ve never used it on you, Dad.  Not once.”

            “What about Sammy?” Dad demanded quietly.

            “Yeah,” Dean admitted.  “A couple of times.”

            He felt Sam stirring and gently whispered, _Sleep_.  Sam would only make the situation worse.

            Dad stared at him for a few minutes.  Dean waited him out.  “You can feel Sam’s limits?”

            Dean nodded.  “I also know what Azazel’s plans were.”  He met Dad’s gaze.  “It won’t happen.  I promise.”

            Dad laughed softly.  “I don’t think I’m worried about Sammy anymore.”

            That hurt and Dean blinked, swallowing a denial.  Dad was right, Dean knew.  He _was_ dangerous.  He’d managed to trap _Azazel_.

            “Dean,” Dad said.  “Watch out for your brother.”

            “You’re leaving?” Dean demanded.

            Sam woke up with a sharp glance at Dean.  “Don’t do that again,” he hissed, then turned to Dad.  “You’re leaving?”

            Dad nodded.  “I have to,” he said.  “When word gets out—which it will, because Azazel was powerful—you’ll need someone out there.”  He stepped forward and put his hand on Dean’s shoulder.  “I’m proud of you, Dean.  Really.  You did good, son.”  He turned to smile at Sam.  “You too, Sammy.”

            He waited a few moments and then quietly left.

            Sam watched him go, mouth open.  “You’re just gonna let him walk away?  Again?” he finally asked.

            “I don’t keep people against their will,” Dean said softly.  He met Sam’s gaze and then looked down.  “I’ll understand if you wanna separate.”

            Sam placed his hand over Dean’s and said, “No.  I’m not goin’ anywhere—unless you want me to go.”

            Dean smiled up at him.  “Well then,” he said.  “Evil watch out.”

 

.

 

            A week after Azazel’s death, they were on the road.  Without a destination in mind, they let the wind take them where it would.

            Dean knew it wasn’t over, would never be over as long as he and Sam lived.  He was fairly certain that Sam knew it, too.

            But Azazel was dead, and Sam had Dean watching his back, and Dad was out there somewhere, a silent sentinel always ready.

 

.

 

_“Sweetheart,” Mommy says softly, pulling Dean into her arms.  “What are you doin’ up, baby boy?”_

_He wraps his arms around her neck. “I saw fire,” he whispers into her skin.  He shudders. “It ate Sammy.”_

_Mommy says, “I had that dream, too.”  She sighs, one hand rubbing his back.  “If you’d stayed asleep, love, you’d have seen that you save him.”  She kisses the side of his head.  “You’ll always save him, Dean.”_

_“What’s goin’ on?” Daddy asks, walking into the room.  “Mary?”_

_Dean keeps his eyes closed, nestled in Mommy’s embrace, listening to Sammy’s soul murmur._

_“We were just talkin’ about the future, Johnny,” Mommy tells Daddy quietly. **Sammy’s our secret** , she whispers to Dean.  **For just a little while longer.**_

**_Okay, Mommy,_ ** _he whispers back.  Daddy returns to their room and Mommy carries Dean from what is not yet a nursery._

_“You have angels watching over you,” Mommy tells him, tucking him in. **And no matter what,** she adds, kissing his forehead, **I’ll always be with you**._

_He dreams of fire and golden eyes, and his baby brother unlocking a door that should never be opened._

_Dean doesn’t understand but he swears that he’ll look out for Sammy and Mommy and Daddy and keep that door shut forever._

_The fire will not eat Sammy._

_Mommy’s dreams are dark and scary in the months leading up to Sammy.  Dean tries to follow her, to protect her, but she always gently shoves him out._

_**Baby boy** , she tells him that final night, holding him close.  **My sweet darling.  I love you.  I’ll always be with you.**   She says aloud, “Angels are watching over you.”_

_Mommy pauses in the doorway and smiles at him. **You are the best surprise of my life, my little wildcard.**_

_Nineteen years pass before he understands what her last words to him meant._

 

 

* * *

 

Dean looks at her, Colt’s kill-all gun in his grip.  She’s rambling about something, and Sam’s listening to her.  If it’s important, he’ll tell Dean.

 

Dean’s fairly certain it’s not important.  He’s actually really pretty sure every word out of her mouth is a lie.  Designed to trick Sam, to trap him. 

 

Her demon-smoke mind is screaming it.

 

Dean looks at her, delicately slips beneath her defenses as she says—something.  She wants them to leave.  Her mind is chaos, dark and dank, and he finds the woman buried far down.  She’s gibbering, begging to be let go.  Begging for Death on his horse, scythe in hand.

 

Okay then.  That simplifies things.

 

He pulls back just as carefully, reading everything there is to know about Sammy’s little pet demon, the lying puff of smoke. 

 

She still smells like sulfur, like Hell and blood and screams, like the pale glint of bone in moonlight.

 

(Death doesn’t have a blade or a horse, not anymore.)

 

Dean looks at her, at the demon who calls herself Ruby for Sam’s benefit, her name long lost in Hell’s lake of fiery torment.  He looks at her and he _sees_ her and he smiles.

 

Her message delivered, she tries to leave.  Sam’s already turned to face Dean, eyes wide.  “What are you doing?” he asks.

 

She’ll betray Sam to her Lord, the glorious MorningStar locked away somewhere.  She’ll hand him over like a good little slave.

 

“No,” Ruby whispers.  “No!  That’s not possible.”

 

Dean raises the Colt she helped make more bullets for and knows it won’t work.  But it’ll hurt her, locked inside the frail human meatsuit. 

 

She gasps at the pain.  He savors the sound. 

 

(He’s never liked traitors.)

 

“Dean!” Sam says.  He attempts to force himself into Dean’s connection with the hellskank and Dean lightly slaps him away.

 

“No, little brother,” he tells Sammy.  “Time for demons to learn.”

 

Death doesn’t have a horse or a scythe or a cowl.  And Dean doesn’t need a gun.

 

And he hates things that want to hurt Sammy.

 

Ruby screams and writhes and Sam demands, “Why?”

 

Dean looks at him and says, _Forget she ever sought you out_. 

 

Sam does.

 

 


	22. knights in faded levis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title: knights in faded levis  
> Disclaimer: not my characters  
> Warnings: pre-series; child neglect  
> Pairings: mentions of John/Mary  
> Rating: PG  
> Wordcount: 550  
> Point of view: third  
> Prompt: Wee!Chester. John slowly realizes that Dean has gone hungry while he was away on his last hunt. He makes it up to his son.

John's two days late and pissed as all get-out because Travis'd said it'd be an easy hunt, in and out, a day max. Everything that could go wrong _did_ go wrong and the groceries had been on their last legs when he left.   
  
He should've stocked up but his last paycheck was late, too, fuck it all, and while the hunt was supposed to be easy, people were still dying.  
  
The excuses sound hollow in his own ears. None of that’ll mean jack-shit to Dean and Sammy.   
  
Well, maybe to Dean, the little peace-keeper. All of eleven and trying to take care of them both, making sure Sam does his schoolwork and doesn’t bother John while he’s researching or tired from a fifteen-hour workday. Cooks when they have the supplies for it, easy things though John’s noticed he’s slowly getting more adept at making things taste restaurant-like.   
  
Shit, now John feels even worse for being so goddamned late.   
  
.  
  
Sam’s sacked out on the floor, army-men spread around him. Dean’s standing beside him, one hand on the shotgun leaning against the wall.   
  
He waits until John says, “Hey, Dean, you think Sam’s ready to toss around a football?” to relax, shoulders slumping.   
  
“No, Dad,” he answers quietly.   
  
John tries to smile and knows Dean can see right through it. “Let’s get ya’ll to bed, alright?” he says and Dean nods.  
  
.  
  
In the morning, John makes breakfast: scrambled eggs, slices of bacon, toast with strawberry jelly.   
  
The fridge and pantry had been bare, and John wanted to slam his head into the wall. So fucking stupid. Mary would kick his ass up and down the block.   
  
Dean’s up first, of course; ever since the fire, kid’s slept like a cat. He stares at breakfast, then John, and asks, “How’d the hunt go?”   
  
No demands of what took so long, of why he didn’t come home, why he left them without any supplies. Just accepting that John had his reasons.   
  
He wants to slam his head into the wall again.   
  
“Fine,” he answers, serving Dean a plate. “Took longer than expected.”   
  
Dean nods seriously. Sam bounces in, chattering that John’s back, that Daisy in his class has a puppy, that Dean’s taking him to the park for popsicles today.   
  
Sam chows his way through breakfast without ever letting up on the stream of information, and John knows that Dean must have treated his absence like a game. He wonders who won.   
  
Dean slowly savors each bite of his meal, each sip of the fresh milk. Sam clearly didn’t go hungry, which means that Dean must’ve.  
  
Mary wouldn’t have kicked his ass, John knows. She’d have fucking buried him.   
  
“Well then,” he says, clearing away the dishes. “Let’s get to that park.”   
  
He promises himself to not leave the boys again, to always keep groceries, at least the non-perishables, around.   
  
“I’m glad you’re back, Dad,” Dean tells him quietly as they follow Sam out the door. He doesn’t say that he was frightened, or that he thought John had died, or a dozen other things he has the right to.   
  
Mary would have his head. He’d deserve it.   
  
“Me, too, kiddo,” he says.   
  
(Three weeks later, Bobby calls with a hunt that just can’t wait. John leaves Dean a hundred in cash and a stocked pantry.)


	23. awake, arise, or be forever fallen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title: awake, arise, or be forever fallen  
> Fandom: “Supernatural”  
> Disclaimer: not my characters; just for fun. Title from Milton.   
> Warnings: AU pre-series and during season 4
> 
> Rating: PG  
> Wordcount: 1170  
> Point of view: third   
> Notes: Gabriel was never the trickster. 
> 
> Written in 2009

You know how many angels have seen the face of God?  Four.  And I’m not one of them.  – Anna, “Heaven and Hell”

 

            The first angel created is not named as such.  He is cradled close by his Creator in the new night, simply called _Hey, you_.  Eventually, as dawns and dusks pass, that is changed to Sammael.  He is the first, the greatest, the beloved of Heaven.

            The second, his first brother, is named Michael as their Creator fashions him from stardust.   _You must teach him_ , Creator says, stroking Sammael’s face.  _It is your duty_.   Sammael is pleased with the responsibility and leads his brother Michael through the skies.

            The third, his second brother, is named Gabriel as their Creator molds him from cloud and water.  _You must teach him_ , Creator says, hands spinning him out _.  As you did Michael.  Show your brothers how to be._  Sammael preens beneath the trust, so very glad.

            The fourth, his third brother, is named Azrael as their Creator wills him into existence from His own spirit.  Azrael is different; he requires no instruction.

            After him, Sammael’s brothers and sisters are formed by the dozens, until they people the skies in a multitude.  The Creator sends them out in droves to care for the newly created Earth and the creatures there.  Sammael and his three brothers, the first and the greatest of all, remain at Creator’s side, the only four to speak with Creator, to see His face.

            Once Sammael questions Creator, demands more respect of the younger sets, leads his rebellion and falls from on high, only three angels see Creator’s face.  Azrael never says anything about Sammael, but Gabriel asks the Creator if He’ll create another, to complete the gaping wound left by the absence of their eldest brother.

            _No_ , Creator replies. _One day, once he has learned his lesson, he will_ _return_.

            Michael is tasked with visiting the humans, after their disobedience, teaching them how to survive.  Azrael is the one who seals the entrance to the Garden of Eden.  Gabriel instructs the younger sets.

            There is never a mention of Sammael.  Soon, the younger sets have forgotten his true name, only thinking of him as Satan or Lucifer or one of a dozen other things they call him.

            Only once does Michael ask, _Could we have saved him?_

            Gabriel has no answer, but Azrael says simply, _He made his choice_.

 

            After countless dawns and dusks, Gabriel is sent to Earth with a message for a simple human girl.  While he is there, checking over one of the younger sets, a shadow greets him by name.

            _Brother,_ the shadow calls, almost joyously.  _Brother, it’s been so long!_

            Gabriel is caught up in excitement at seeing Sammael again, before Creator’s command comes back: Sammael is to be shunned.

            _I must go,_ he says softly, turning away.

            _I understand,_ Sammael replies.  _Tell our brothers I…_ Gabriel looks back as Sammael finishes, _I miss them._

            Gabriel tells their brothers; Michael looks away, out over the heavens and Earth, and Azrael merely nods.

.

            Azrael is sent to collect the Creator’s Son, delivering his soul to Sammael in Hell.  The brothers exchange nods and that is the extent of their interaction; even when Azrael fetches the Son and brings him to Heaven, Sammael merely watches from a distance.

.

            One morning, Michael does not arrive at their daily meeting with Creator.

            _He has been given an assignment_ , Creator tells them _.  Do not seek him out_. 

.

            The skies are lonely without Michael.  Azrael is always so serious, so solemn.  Gabriel misses his brother, a sharp ache that not even Creator’s song can fully erase.

            And he still misses Sammael.

.

            Not long after Michael is sent on his mission, one of the younger sets, a female called Ananchel, brings word to Gabriel that there has been no sighting of Sammael in a span of human months. 

            _He is usually there to taunt us as we guide the humans,_ she reports.  _But recently, nothing._

            Gabriel thanks her for the news and wings his way to Creator, who tells him, _Do not be troubled.  I have everything in hand._

.          

            Gabriel cannot help but worry as human years pass and there is no news of either Michael or Sammael.  The Creator comforts him, but always Gabriel’s mind races with thoughts of what his brothers might be doing, and where—he cannot sense either of them at all.

            And then, finally, one of the younger sets, Castiel, meets him on a mountaintop and says, _I have word on Michael_.  He pauses, looking away.  _And Sammael_.

            No one but Gabriel has used that name in years.

            _Where are they?_ Gabriel asks.  He can feel Creator’s desire that he refrain from gleaning Castiel’s knowledge, but Heaven has been so lonely.

            _They were born as humans,_ Castiel says.  _I was tasked with the Raising of Michael from Perdition._

            Gabriel flinches.  _Michael went to Perdition?_

            Castiel nods, meeting Gabriel’s eyes; his expression is filled with adoration and wonder.  _He went there to save Sammael._

.

            Gabriel confronts Creator, demanding, _What is the plan?_

            Creator is serene on his throne.  _They will save existence, child.  Or they will destroy it.  And I will watch as it plays out._

            Closing his eyes, Gabriel whispers, _I’m going to Earth_. 

            _If you leave_ , Creator says, _you will Fall_.

            Gabriel throws himself from the heavens.

.

            He finds them in a human diner, eating human food, locked deep within two human men.  Castiel and a demon watch from inside two other humans.

            Gabriel’s back aches.  His eyes itch.  But being in the presence of his brothers eases away the pain of being torn from Creator’s goodwill. 

            Castiel greets him with a smile, offering him a place at the table.  Michael looks at him warily and Sammael asks, “Are you another angel?”

            The demon stares at him.  “Messenger,” she murmurs.

            He nods.  “I am Gabriel,” he tells his two elder brothers, the greatest and the beloved, the first of them all.  “I’m here to help.”

            “Gabriel?” Michael asks.  “Like, _the_ Gabriel?”

            Again, he nods, studying his brothers in turn.  They look nothing like they did in the heavens, or after Sammael’s fall. 

            “Yes,” Gabriel answers.  Directing his question to Castiel in the angelic tongue, he asks, _Will they remember?_

            Castiel replies, _As the last Seal breaks._  

            Sammael says politely, “I’m sure you know this already, but I’m Sam and he’s my brother, Dean.”

            Gabriel smiles as Castiel continues, _Michael is sent by God to stop that from happening, by any means necessary.  I am here to aid him, and to do what must be done, should he falter._

            “It is good to meet you, Sam and Dean,” Gabriel tells them, remembering Sammael and Michael and the endless skies.  They had been the first, the greatest, most beloved of the heavens.  And now they are human, so very fragile, mortal and dangerous. 

            _You do not have the strength to kill the first of us_ , Gabriel says simply.  _Only Michael was ever so strong._

 

 

* * *

 

The last seal breaks on a Thursday.  Dean collapses first, screaming, and Sam follows suit a moment after.

 

“Dean!” Castiel calls, hurrying to his side while Ruby does the same for Sam.

 

Gabriel spreads his soot-stained wings, shielding them from the hordes of Hell, but slowly the army falters.  Kneels.

 

He feels Sammael first, but only because the eldest has been gone the longest.  Gabriel lowers his wings and turns.

 

There they stand, the first and the greatest, Sammael and Michael, side by side.  They still wear the human vessels, but no one could mistake them for human now.

 

“Brothers,” he says.  “Welcome back.”

 

“Creator has much to answer for,” Sammael snarls.

 

Michael does not disagree.


	24. fear me, love me, do as I say, and I will be your slave

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title: fear me, love me, do as I say, and I will be your slave  
> Fandom: Supernatural  
> Disclaimer: not my characters; title from Labyrinth.   
> Warnings: takes place after Hammer of the Gods; AU during season 5  
> Pairings: none stated  
> Rating: PG  
> Wordcount: 820  
> Point of view: third  
> Prompt: acorn
> 
> Written in 2010

_You are more than my vessel_ , _Sam_ , Lucifer tells him quietly as they watch Dean play baseball.  It’s clearly a dream: Dean never attended LSU, never played any sport Sam can remember, and Lucifer sure as fuck never sat beside Sam on the bleachers. Dean looks so young. 

 

 _Oh, calm down, Sam_ , Lucifer admonishes him as he jumps to his feet and backs away _.  I just want to chat._

 

Sam takes a deep breath and settles back on the bleacher _.  I—I have a question_ , he begins hesitantly.

 

Lucifer smiles, partly proud and partly delighted.  It makes Sam both nauseated and worried that he kinda wants to smile back.  _You can ask me anything, Sam_ , Lucifer says.

 

 _Okay, make that two questions_ , Sam amends _.  First, why do you keep repeating my name?_

 

Lucifer chuckles.  _It’s a good name, and it reminds me of Heaven.  Second question?_

_Second…_ Sam darts a glance to Lucifer’s eyes, since Lucifer hasn’t looked anywhere but Sam since he sat down, and then he gazes back at the field, where Dean’s pitching two-hundred mile-an-hour fast balls.  Definitely a dream.

 

 _Second_ , Sam starts again, taking strength from his brother’s renewed faith in him.  _You’re just an angel.  How can you kill gods?_

 

Lucifer sets a hand on Sam’s shoulder and Sam flinches away, his gaze shooting back to Lucifer.  _Samuel_ , he says gently.  _My father is the Creator.  He created everything, including the lesser gods.  But I am older than everything except Father, and with age comes tremendous power._   He pauses, turning to face the game, clapping as Dean gets the third out, and he nods toward Dean.  _He’s killed gods, my dear.  So have you.  You didn’t really think the power lay in the weapons you used?_

 

He reaches for Sam again, and this time Sam lets him maintain contact.  Without pause, Lucifer continues, _Yahweh is Allah is Brahman is Chaos is all the rest.  God is all of them, is none of them.  God is a tyrant and an adoring father, a daisy and a sun.  He is air and stardust, and beyond your puny comprehension, Samuel Winchester.  I can kill what you call gods because they are **not** God.  They are his creations, no better than the archangels._  His hand tightens on Sam’s shoulder _.  I kill angels.  So does your brother._   He shakes Sam slightly.  _So_ _do you.  Tell me, vessel mine, what do you think this means?_

 

Sam doesn’t reply, just clenches his jaw and his fists.  Lucifer laughs softly.  _No human, Sam, no matter how virtuous or strong, can kill a demon, an angel, or a god._   He leans in close, whispers in Sam’s ear, _You are no human.  You killed the most powerful demon, you destroyed a horseman, you unlocked a cage sealed by the greatest unfallen angel of all._ A soft kiss is pressed to Sam’s temple and he shudders.

 

 _Be not afraid,_ the Star of Morning tells him.  _You are my vessel, a part of me.  Mine and my own, my gift and my chosen, my blessing.  You will consent because you cannot deny my call._

 

Sam finally pulls away, shooting to his feet to tower over the Devil.  _Not ever_ , he hisses.  _Leave me alone_.

 

Lucifer smiles again, and Sam lashes out, slamming his fist into Lucifer’s lying mouth.  Lucifer only laughs and slouches back, grinning.  _Mine_ , he says simply.  _You feel the truth, Sam. You always have.  I kill gods because I am better—I am first, best, brightest of all.  You kill gods because you are mine._

 

 _That doesn’t make any sense!_ Sam shouts, beyond frightened and annoyed all the way into pissed.

 

 _Of course it does_ , Lucifer replies.  _My father gave humanity free will.  He also gave them a choice in who to worship.  It doesn’t matter what ‘god’ anyone worships; if they’re good and righteous and kind and adopt puppies and plant trees, they go to Heaven or whatever equivalent they believe in.  That might actually be one of the nicer things Father did._   Lucifer pauses to smirk.  _If you discount all the religious wars that resulted from it._

 

Sam shakes his head.  _Sam_ , Lucifer says, so reasonably Sam has to struggle to find a way not to listen, not to be reeled in and fall.  _Say yes to me, Samuel.  What was created can be destroyed.  Don’t you want to make them all pay for everything you’ve endured?_

 

 _Let me wake up_ , Sam pleads, anger giving way to weariness.  _Please._

_As you wish,_ Lucifer says. 

 

The first thing Sam does after lunging out of bed is run to the bathroom and puke into the toilet.  The second thing is muffle sobs with his fists.  The third is swear again that he will never consent.

 

He ignores the part of him whispering, _It doesn’t matter if you say yes or not_.  It sounds like Lucifer, and it sounds like the truth.

 


	25. I sing for you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title: I sing for you  
> Fandom: “Supernatural”  
> Disclaimer: not my characters; just for fun. Title from Anne Sexton.  
> Warnings: takes place during season two  
> Pairings: none  
> Rating: PG  
> Wordcount: 155  
> Point of view: third
> 
> Written in 2007

 

 

            Dean thinks, sometimes, that in another world he and Victor Hendrickson could have been friends. He doubts that he and Gordon Walker would’ve been, though.

            He respects the FBI agent. Hendrickson’s doing what he thinks is right, trying to bring in a dangerous psychopath. But—a mark in his favor—he’d let Sam go. If Dean turned himself in and said he’d made Sam do everything, Hendrickson would set Sam free.

            Gordon, though, wants Sam dead, won’t stop till Sam’s gone. And that is a sin that Dean will never forgive.

            Before that graveyard, before Jake, before Madison, Sam was not a killer. In Dean’s eyes, he still isn’t. And Dean’ll do anything— _anything_ —to keep Sam innocent. If he ever sees Gordon again, he’ll prove the bastard right.

            _I didn’t blink_ , Gordon said, about putting down his baby sister.  _And neither would you._

            Dean will never, ever kill Sam. And he’ll kill anyone who tries.

 


	26. chance may crown me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title: chance may crown me  
> Fandom: “Supernatural”  
> Disclaimer: the Winchesters aren’t mine. Everyone else is. Title from Macbeth.  
> Warnings: pre-pilot; rampant run-on sentences; a smidge of language; frequent Shakespeare mocking  
> Pairings: none  
> Rating: PG13  
> Wordcount: 4735  
> Point of view: third  
> Notes: written for the spn_summergenfic-exchange
> 
> Written in 2007
> 
> I don't agree with this characterization of Dean anymore, but upon rereading, the story stands up alright.

Her name was Marigold Hawkins, and she was _totally_ evil. Dean knew it the first time he walked into her English class and saw her beady little eyes. He told Dad, he told Sam—hell, he even called up Pastor Jim and told _him_. But no one listened.  
  
_You're overreacting, Dean.  
  
She just wants your best work, Dean.  
  
C'mon, Dean—act your age, son. _(Clearly, that last was Dad.)  
  
The woman was evil. Not to mention insane.  
  
What seventeen-year-old male in the history of the world cared about Shakespeare? Some overrated dead guy who could barely write a coherent sentence, for _real_.  
  
But Marigold Hawkins insisted on a major project, due at the end of the year, that would be worth half the final grade, _and_ she would pair students up together. With Dean's luck, he’d get Tucker Marcus, that creepy-ass pale dude who probably worshiped Satan and sacrificed babies in his spare time.  
  
_With_ Ms. Hawkins.  
  
And, of course, Dad swore upside down and backwards that they’d spend the entire year in this one place, because of some cracked-out deal he'd made with Sammy.  
  
Dean, also of course, had no say in the matter. Not that he ever did.   
  
Not that he’s bitter.  
  
Honest.  
  
\--  
  
Ms. Hawkins paired him with Tucker Marcus, of _course_ , and assigned them _Macbeth_.   
  
Stupid play.   
  
Dean pouted in his desk until third period ended and stormed out, ignoring Ms. Hawkins’ beady glare and Marcus shouting his name.   
  
The school wasn’t that big, though, and Marcus tracked him down to his fourth period, calculus with Mr. Trudeau, and sank down into the desk next to him. Dean ignored him(like he wasn’t already the odd kid out, what with coming in the middle of the year and all) and pulled out his math book.  
  
“We’ll need to get together and go over the assignment,” Marcus said. “No way I’m failin’ just ’cause I got partnered with _you_.”  
  
Dean continued to ignore him. Marcus huffed and got up, pausing by Dean to say, “I’ll see you at lunch, Winchester.”   
  
\--   
  
Of course, creepy-ass, pale, devil-worshipper Tucker Marcus actually did sit by Dean at lunch that day. And the next. And the one after that.  
  
So, finally, Dean gave in and actually talked to the jerk.   
  
They agreed to meet at Marcus’ house on Saturday, around nine, and go over the assignment, read that stupid play, and start their retelling.  
  
’cause that was the assignment. Ms. Hawkins wanted them to rewrite Shakespeare(overrated _hack_ )’s masterpiece.  
  
Clearly, the crazy witch was evil.  
  
\--  
  
  
Dad didn’t see it that way, big surprise. And, unfortunately, there was no hunt he needed help with. So Saturday, Dean headed for Marcus’ house.  
  
It was clear across town, and Dad had the car, so Dean hoofed it, which didn’t endear the project or Marcus to him. He grumbled the whole way, listing everything he’d rather be doing—having his gallbladder ripped out by a pissed-off poltergeist topped it.   
  
But he eventually reached the address Marcus had shoved at him, far sooner than he’d have liked. And it was a good house, upper middle-class, two stories.   
  
He rang the bell, counting down his last seconds of freedom. The door opened to reveal a little girl, no more than nine. He would _never_ have let Sammy open the door at that age.  
  
“Who’re you?” she asked, big blue eyes guileless and the color of the sky.  
  
“Dean Winchester,” he answered. “’m’here to do a project with Tucker?”   
  
She stared at him for a moment before backing up and yelling, “Billy, it’s for you!” Then she shut the door in his face.  
  
Dean stared at the smooth, dark brown wood in stupefaction. Had Sammy been that rude? And “ _Billy_ ,” huh? Weird.   
  
The door swung open again, this time revealing Marcus. “I’m sorry about Clara,” he said, not sounding sorry at all.  
  
Dean shrugged and Marcus continued, “C’mon in.”  
  
\--  
  
They read most of the play that morning, and Dean wondered how half the world could be in love with Shakespeare. He _sucked_. Out loud.  
  
Marcus sang the dude’s praises, though, and Dean rolled his eyes. “How ’bout _you_ jus’ do the assignment, then? Seems like you’re in love with the guy, anyway.”   
  
Marcus glared at him and snarled something Dean didn’t quite catch.   
  
“Billy!” the munchkin shrieked, throwing open the door. Marcus jumped and Dean flinched. “Mama wants you!”   
  
“Clara!” Marcus roared and she wheeled around, raced off. Dean raised an eyebrow and looked at Marcus.   
  
“Siblings, man,” he said and laughed, shaking his head. “Adorable, ain’t they?”  
  
Marcus snorted, rolling his eyes, and stood. “I’ll be right back.”  
  
\--  
  
It took Marcus a good twenty minutes to come back, and Dean entertained himself by flipping through the yearbooks decorating the shelves. Marcus had attended school in this town since kindergarten— _geeze_. Dean couldn’t even imagine being stuck in one place for so long.  
  
But finally Marcus came back. Dean looked up from his spot, lounging on the bed, and said, “We gonna do the assignment or not?”   
  
Marcus glared at him. “My mom wants me to invite you to supper. I assured her you have plans.” His glare intensified. “You do—right?”  
  
Dean nodded, a little in shock—he’d almost thought they had a moment of connection. Oh, well. Not like he wanted friends in this place, anyway. “Don’t worry, dude. My schedule’s full up.”   
  
“Good.”   
  
He decided not to push Marcus any more after that, and buckled down, trying to slog his way through the rest of _Macbeth_ with a minimum of grumbling.   
  
“My dad called,” Marcus finally said, the words spilling out in a rush. “He’s not comin’ back ‘til next week.”   
  
“Um…” Dean didn’t know what to say. “Sorry?”  
  
Marcus sighed. “He’s been gone for three weeks—business trip.” Marcus shook his head and scoffed, continued with disgust, “Like we don’t know what he’s _really_ doing.”

 

“Oh.” Dean stared at him. “Man, I’m sorry.”   
  
Marcus shook himself, stretching. “Forget about it. Let’s just work.”   
  
“Okay,” Dean agreed.  
  
\--  
  
They planned to meet at the public library when it opened the next afternoon at three. Marcus said he might have to bring the munchkin, and Dean shrugged—“Dad’ll probably make me take Sammy.”   
  
“Was it as bad as you were expectin’?” Dad asked when he got back and Dean shrugged one shoulder.   
  
“Could’a been worse, I s’pose,” he answered. “We’re not done yet, though.”  
  
“Oh, really?” Dad said, raising an eyebrow. “And what’s left for you to do, son?”  
  
“The whole thing. We just read the stupid play today.” Dean sighed, showing Dad what a sacrifice that was. “We’re goin’ to the library tomorrow.”   
  
Just like Dean knew he would, Dad said, “Take your brother.”   
  
\---  
  
He told Sam to not leave the baby-books section, and if he did, Dean wouldn’t play basketball with him for a month.  
  
“They’re _not_ baby books, Dean!” Sam called after him, and Dean ignored him.  
  
He headed for the back, where he and Marcus had agreed to meet. Marcus was already there, the munchkin sitting beside him. Dean plopped down across the table and waited to be acknowledged. Marcus held up a finger and continued reading. Dean rolled his eyes.  
  
Finally, Marcus set aside his book and said to the munchkin, “Clara, go look for some books you want.”  
  
She pouted at him. “Mama told you to watch me.”  
  
Marcus looked at her; she shot to her feet, flounced off.   
  
Dean raised an eyebrow and chuckled. “Sure am glad Sammy’s a boy.”   
  
Marcus tossed a slim volume at Dean; Dean grabbed it out of the air without looking, smirking at Marcus’ small impressed noise.   
  
“So, how we gonna do this?” Dean asked, opening the book. It was a history of Shakespeare. “Aww, hell.”  
  
Now, Marcus smirked. “Well, we can make it a modern-day rendition, or fiddle around with the characters a bit.”   
  
“Hate this play,” Dean muttered.  
  
\--  
  
They decided to retell the play in the fifties. Marcus agreed to write it out, since his handwriting was about a billion times better than Dean’s. But Dean came up with the basic storyline—since it couldn’t be a verbatim plot—and convinced Marcus to change the ending.   
  
“C’mon, dude,” he wheedled, “it’s entirely too easy for the MacDuff guy to win.”  
  
“We _can’t_ rewrite the ending!” Marcus countered. “It’s a historical classic!”  
  
Dean raised an eyebrow. “And?”  
  
Marcus glared. Dean smirked.   
  
And Marcus sighed, “Fine.”  
  
\--  
  
Monday, Dean walked into class and Ms. Hawkins greeted him with a bright smile. “Hello, Dean,” she chirped. “Lovely day, isn’t it?”  
  
He stared at her. “Yeah, Ms. Hawkins,” he finally answered. “Lovely day.”   
  
Slowly, he worked his way around her; her beady little eyes followed him and her thin lips still smiled. Creepiest woman he’d ever known.  
  
Class started and she called roll; Marcus walked in late and got detention, to be served with Ms. Hawkins on Wednesday. He pouted throughout English, glaring at her, but he held his tongue, which was more than Dean could have done.  
  
After the bell, Marcus stalked up to Dean and said, “Still meeting at my house tonight?”   
  
Dean nodded. “Sorry ’bout the bitch, dude.”  
  
“ _Mr. Winchester!_ ”   
  
Dean blanched.   
  
Mr. Calley, the principal, came around the corner, eyes narrowed in fury. “You will serve detention on Wednesday, Winchester. And consider this your _last_ warning!” He stalked off.  
  
Watching him go, Dean muttered a curse.   
  
\--  
  
Sammy laughed. And laughed. Dean folded his arms and glared. And demanded of Dad, “Do I hav’ta go? There’s gotta be hunt, or _somethin’_.”  
  
“Nope,” Dad said serenely. “It’s not your first detention, son.”  
  
“I know,” Dean groaned. “But Dad, it’s with _her_.” Her, that evil, virgin-sacrificing witch.  
  
“Dean,” Dad said, in _that_ tone.  
  
Dean pouted. “Yes, sir.”   
  
\--  
  
Dean and Tucker(since they had detention together, and the guy wasn’t _that_ bad, Dean decided to call him by his name now) commiserated before getting to the play. “Bitch,” Dean muttered and Tucker nodded.   
  
“I’ve never had detention before!” Tucker told him. “Not once!”  
  
Dean stared at him. “Really? Dude, how’d you pull that off?”  
  
Tucker looked at him, tilting his head. “For real?”  
  
“Yeah.”   
  
So Tucker told him about his entire high-school experience, how he stuck to the walls and the shadows, never drawing attention to himself. How he had no friends, but also no enemies, and teachers that often ignored him. “Can’t get in trouble if you aren’t seen,” Tucker explained, the sadness in his eyes cutting Dean, hitting too close for comfort.   
  
Dean nodded. “I get that.” He chuffed a small laugh. “I’ve played so many different roles… jus’ decided to be the bad-boy here, I guess.” He shrugged.   
  
Tucker studied him for a minute. “How many of them stories people tell are true?”   
  
Dean’s smirk was strained, but he answered, “All of ’em.”   
  
\--  
  
They got a great deal of work done that afternoon: character lists, the basic outline of what they would change, and Dean’s ending.   
  
Tucker invited Dean to dinner, but Dean said, “Sorry—gotta go home and spend time with Sammy ’fore the kid thinks I’ve forgotten about him.”  
  
Tucker nodded. “See you tomorrow, then.”  
  
Dean grinned. “Later.”  
  
\--  
  
Tuesday came and went without any problems. But Wednesday, Wednesday started with a storm. The rain lashed at the windows and the trees moaned. Sam woke with a fever of one-hundred degrees and got to stay home; Dean told Dad he should stay with Sam, just to be on the safe side.  
  
“He’s not a baby anymore, Dean,” Dad patiently explained. “And I’ll come home at lunch to check on him. You’re goin’ to school.”  
  
“Yes, sir,” Dean said sulkily, then braved the storm.  
  
\--  
  
School sucked. It wasn’t his first detention—not by a long-shot—but he’d have to spend time with _Marigold Hawkins_.  
  
Bitch. All her fault.  
  
The bell rang, signaling the end of the day, and Dean trudged to Ms. Hawkins’ classroom. He met up with Tucker at the door.   
  
“We could always skip,” Dean suggested hopefully.   
  
Tucker sighed. “No, we couldn’t.”   
  
Dean deflated. “Yeah—Dad’d kick my ass.” It was his turn to sigh. “Damn.”  
  
\--  
  
Ms. Hawkins gave them dictionaries and assigned letters; Dean got _F_ and Tucker _V_. “Write until I tell you to stop,” she said, thin lips twisted in a creepy smile.  
  
She sat at her desk, grading papers, and placed Dean in the front row, with Tucker in the back. And Dean felt her eyes, throughout the entire hour, roaming over him, studying him, judging him.  
  
It weirded him out. A lot.  
  
But finally the detention was over. He didn’t flee the room, just hurried out, nearly stepping on Tucker’s heels. He felt her eyes on him as he went, and apprehension filled him.  
  
Something was really, _really_ wrong with that woman, and no one would believe him. No one. Not Dad, not Sammy, not Pastor Jim or Bobby or Caleb. And it wasn’t like she _scared_ him, or anything. Just a feeling of oddness about her, something that scraped at him.  
  
He was on his own.  
  
\--  
  
Sam’s fever was up to a hundred-and-two. Dad had to go out of town for a couple of nights, so he told Dean to stay home ‘til Monday. And Dean had no problem with that, at all.   
  
Sam slept most of the time, uneasily, always on the edge of waking. Dean kept water and soup close by, reading aloud any time he sensed Sam was close to consciousness. He also brought his Calculus (the only class he enjoyed) book into Sam’s room and worked on the next few chapters, getting ahead of the lesson.  
  
Tucker called Thursday afternoon, asking why he hadn’t been at school. No one had ever done that before, showed concern when he missed a day, except teachers. And even that was rare. They usually cared more for Sammy.   
  
“Sam’s sick,” Dean explained, heating up some more soup for Sammy. “I gotta watch him tomorrow, too.”   
  
“Can I come by?” Tucker asked. “Ms. Hawkins gave us some more instructions for the project today.”   
  
Dean shot a look towards Sam’s room. “Sure. But just long enough to tell me what she said. Sam needs quiet.”   
  
“Okay,” Tucker agreed. “Give me your address.”  
  
\--  
  
Tucker arrived about an hour later, bearing all of Dean’s assignments for school.   
  
“You just had to, huh?” he asked.  
  
Tucker grinned at him, depositing his load on the kitchen table. “I got your locker number from Ms. Alvin.” Tucker looked around. “Can I get some water?”   
  
Dean nodded and filled him a glass. “Now, what’d the bitch say?”  
  
“She’s moved the due date up,” Tucker said, taking a long gulp. “To three weeks from tomorrow.”   
  
Dean rolled his eyes. “Why?”  
  
Tucker shrugged. “Dunno.”   
  
\--  
  
Sam was better the next morning, his fever down to one-hundred. Dean reread the first act of _Macbeth_ and did some of the Physics homework, then made Sam more soup for lunch. After that, he did a load of dishes, straightened up the apartment, and read the second act of Shakespeare’s stupid play.   
  
By that time, Sam was up and slowly moving around. He took a quick shower, Dean hovering outside the bathroom door.  
  
“’m’fine,” Sam grumbled when he came out, but he didn’t shake Dean off as Dean led him back to his bed and tucked the covers around him.   
  
“Want somethin’ to eat?” Dean asked but Sam shook his head, burrowing into his blankets. “Alright. I’ll be in the livin’ room, Sammy—call me if you need me.”   
  
He read the third act of _Macbeth_ , finished the World History study guide, and watched a basketball game on TV. During half-time, he checked on Sam, and then cleaned the guns, sharpened some of the knives, and started supper.   
  
Finally, the sun fully set and Sam stirred again. Dean watched as he lumbered to the couch and lowered himself down. He looked around quizzically and asked, “Where’s Dad?”  
  
“Gone on a hunt. He should be back tomorrow,” Dean answered. “Hungry?”   
  
Sam nodded, rubbing at his eyes. “Not soup.”   
  
Dean studied him for a moment. “You can try some of the chili I had for supper.”   
  
He slipped off the couch and padded over to the kitchen, warming a bowl of chili in the microwave. He snagged some crackers and a spoon, then carried his prizes back to Sammy, who was stretched out along the couch, looking miserable.   
  
“How you doin’?” he asked, setting the bowl, crackers, and spoon on the coffee table before helping Sam up.   
  
“Fine.” Sam sniffed and rubbed at his eyes again. “My head’s about a gazillion pounds, though.”   
  
Dean made a sympathetic noise and handed off the chili, waiting ‘til Sam had it securely before giving him the spoon. “Here’re some crackers, too.”   
  
Sam’s smile was a pale shadow of its usual self, but it was genuine.   
  
\--  
  
Saturday, Sam was a mite sluggish but basically his former self. He ate real food, drank glass after glass of water, and generally made a nuisance of himself as Dean tried to work.  
  
And Dean relished every second of it. He _hated_ it when Sam was sick.  
  
Dad got home around noon, smelling like shit and scowling. “I got the son of a bitch,” was all he said and stalked to the bathroom, stripping his sodden clothes as he went. Dean gingerly picked them up and shoved them into the washer, starting it without adding anything else but the soap.  
  
While Dad was still in the shower, Tucker called. “Yesterday, Ms. Hawkins told me we have to go her house.”   
  
“ _Excuse_ me?” Dean couldn’t have heard him right.  
  
Tucker sighed and sounded apologetic. “Tomorrow. Something about making sure we understand the assignment. She’s meeting with all the groups. We’re the first.”   
  
Dean muttered a curse. “And she can’t ask us in class, _why_ , exactly?”   
  
“I dunno. But she’ll dock points if we aren’t both there.”   
  
With a scowl, Dean said, “Fine.”   
  
Not like she frightened him, or anything. Just some old woman who sacrificed virgins to her dark lord. Not a problem.   
  
\--  
  
They met at the library with all their materials. Tucker drove from there, an old black ’vette that he said his dad gave him as a bribe.  
  
“She picked the time, I’m guessin’,” Dean said and Tucker nodded.   
  
“Three-twenty in the afternoon is the best time for her, for some reason.”   
  
That niggled something in the back of Dean’s mind, but then his favorite Metallica song came on the radio and he turned it up loud without asking. He sang along and Tucker joined in, and Dean wondered, for one split-second, if that was what it’d be like to have friends.   
  
\--  
  
Ms. Hawkins’ house was almost _too_ normal. Dean studied the white shutters and neatly trimmed roses with a critical eye. She seemed to be trying too hard.   
  
“Well, let’s do this,” Tucker said.   
  
Dean followed him to the door.  
  
\--  
  
Ms. Hawkins welcomed them into her lair with gleaming eyes and a wide grin, offered them lemonade and sandwiches, and told them to take a seat at the dining room table. Tucker spread their project out and Dean slouched next to him as Ms. Hawkins rifled through it all.   
  
“Oh, well done, boys!” she praised, and the words sounded somewhat flat to Dean, like they were rote and she was reading from a manual. Tucker didn’t seem to notice anything, though, and he straightened up with a smile.   
  
“So, we’re on the right track?” he asked, taking a big bite of his ham-and-cheese sandwich.   
  
“If I were grading this right now?” She refilled Tucker’s glass. “I’d give the two of you a very high B.”   
  
Tucker practically glowed.   
  
Dean rolled his eyes, uncaring of the grade, and wondered if the room had always been so dark, because shadows seemed to be growing on the walls. But neither Ms. Hawkins nor Tucker noticed, and they kept on discussing the project. Dean tried focusing, he really did, but there was a pounding behind his eyes and his head weighed a thousand pounds, and something in his stomach recoiled.  
  
He looked at Ms. Hawkins and she smiled, saying to Tucker, “I think you have the project well in hand, Mr. Marcus. So why don’t you head on home? Dean and I still have some things to talk about.”   
  
Tucker shot a glance at Dean, but he must not have looked as bad as he felt, because Tucker agreed and gathered up his part of their work, and said “Bye,” before taking off.   
  
And Ms. Hawkins smiled. Dark and dangerous, her thin lips stretched obscenely, and she lunged for him. Dean threw himself back, and she laughed, she laughed so loud it echoed in his head, drowning out the pounding, and she said, “You’ll do nicely.”   
  
Everything went dark and he welcomed the silence that came with it.  
  
\--  
  
Dean woke to chanting. The floor was cold beneath his cheek, and he kept his eyes closed, listening hard. It wasn’t Latin or Sumerian, wasn’t Hindu or Aramaic… no language he knew. Probably demonic.   
  
Which was great. Just great.  
  
So, Ms. Hawkins really was _was_ evil. When he got out of this, he’d be telling people _I told you so_ for years.  
  
Dad knew where he was, though. Dad’d miss him soon enough and come in, guns blazing, deal with Ms. Hawkins and save him before…   
  
“I know you’re awake, Dean,” she said, patting his cheek.   
  
He rolled away, hands bound and held tight to his chest, eyes snapping open, and he glared at her. “Don’t you touch me,” he hissed.  
  
“Come now, Dean,” she cooed. “You’re being honored! Not just anyone can be a sacrifice, you know. That’s why I sent Tucker away.” Ms. Hawkins wore a dark robe; maybe it’d be blue in good light. Her hair was down, a deep brown with a strands of gray streaming through it.  
  
“I’ll kill you,” he told her, looking around for any escape. It was a basement, a damp and dark basement, with candles dotting it, the flames dancing threateningly. He shook his head, the world still hazy from whatever she’d roofied him with.   
  
“I doubt that very much.” Her voice took on the teaching tone he hated at school. “See, Dean, I’ve been planning this for years, before you were even born. And everything’s finally in place. I was just waiting for the right person to come along.” She smiled again, leaning over to touch his face. “And you finally did.”   
  
“What’m I bein’ sacrificed to?” he asked, testing the ropes around his wrists. His feet were free but didn’t seem to want to listen.  
  
Her eyes gleamed some more. “Anubis.”   
  
“The jackal dude?” Dean stared at her. “What for?”  
  
She laughed. “Immortality. What else? I needed someone young, someone beautiful, someone pure—”  
  
“I ain’t pure, you crazy bitch.”   
  
Ms. Hawkins stood back up and strode to the far wall, gripping something he couldn’t see in the dim light. “You _are_ pure, Dean.” Her voice rang throughout the room, echoing off the walls. “Far purer than anyone I’ve ever known. Anubis will be pleased with you.”  
  
Dean rolled his eyes. “My dad’ll come and kill you, so this sacrifice-thing is pointless. You might as well let me go.”  
  
“No, Dean.” She sounded patient and sincere. “No one is coming. No one will be here until it’s too late.”   
  
For a moment, he believed her.   
  
“No,” he denied, shaking his head. “Dad’ll come.”   
  
She walked back over and jammed a knife into his left shoulder; pain flared up and rolled throughout his entire body.   
  
“I’ll be back,” she said gently. “Be good, Dean.”  
  
He bit his lip to keep in the pain and glared up at her. She kissed his forehead and strode away, locking the basement door behind her.  
  
Once he was able to will away the pain, Dean realized that Ms. Hawkins had left the knife in his shoulder. Stupid bitch.  
  
\--  
  
It hurt like hell, but he finally twisted his hands around enough to grip the knife handle and pull it out of his shoulder. Of course, then he had to deal with the blood making his grasp slick while he tried sawing through the ropes with bound hands, but he managed. With a minimum of whimpering and cursing. Honest.  
  
When he got himself free, he cut off the bottom of his shirt and pressed it into his shoulder before standing. The world tilted around him for a moment ; he took a minute to catch his breath and will back the pain again, then lumbered for the door, sticking close to the wall. He had no idea how long he’d been gone, if Dad had even started looking yet. If Dad even knew to look.  
  
Sam would, though, right? He _had_ to know.   
  
No. Dean slumped down against the wall, the knife loosening in his fist. He was on his own. He had to get out of here before he bled to death all over the bitch’s basement. Once he was out, he could send Dad back here. Once he was out…   
  
The door opened, Ms. Hawkins framed in the light from the hallway.   
  
“Dean!” she exclaimed, eyes widening. “What are you doing?”   
  
He reacted on pure instinct, throwing the knife before he even realized he’d thought about it. He lost his balance and sagged down, jarring his shoulder on the stone floor.   
  
But she went down, too, the knife in her neck. He had to look away from her eyes as she gurgled and whimpered and died with barely a groan.   
  
Dean lay there, his blood mingling with hers as the puddle grew, and when lightning flashed Dean knew he was completely fucked.  
  
\--  
  
Looking back later, Dean hated talking about it. He explained the situation only once, and only to Dad.   
  
C’mon—how can someone talk about a god of death deciding to let them go because their eyes are the wrong color? It’s kind of embarrassing.   
  
Marigold Hawkins made a great sacrifice, though. Anubis actually seemed excited about taking her.  
  
\--  
  
Dean walked to school on Tuesday with his shoulder bandaged and a dark bruise coloring most of his face. He still had the remnants of the worst headache of his life and he wasn’t in the mood for school. Stupid bitch with her stupid drugs and stupid psychosis—   
  
But Dad made him go. He was running on about three hours of true sleep, his body ached all over, and he could still hear Anubis’ booming voice and Ms. Hawkins’ soul screaming in his ears, but Dad made him go anyway. The stab-wound wasn’t deep enough to warrant a hospital, so it wasn’t bad enough to keep him out of school for a third day in two weeks.  
  
The English substitute was nice enough, though. And cute, in a perky blonde sort-of way.  
  
Dean slept through most of his classes and sat in Mr. Trudeau’s room at lunch, slumped over a desk, resting his eyes.  
  
“Dean?” Mr. Trudeau asked. “Everythin’ alright, son?”  
  
“Yeah,” Dean answered, yawning so widely his jaw cracked. “Just a bad night’s sleep.”  
  
“Your shoulder? And face?” Concern filled the words, and Dean was shocked. Sure, Mr. Trudeau was his favorite teacher at this particular school, but he’d never really showed Dean any attention before.  
  
Dean smiled up at him. “Fell off my bike, ’s’all, sir.”   
  
Mr. Trudeau studied him. “You sure?”  
  
“Yes’ir,” he repeated.   
  
\--  
  
Two weeks later, Dad packed them up and moved. Sam glared and grumbled and bit his tongue to hold in any words he’d regret later. Dean just felt relief. He never wanted to come back to this town.  
  
He did tell Tucker goodbye, gave him the rest of the assignment even though it didn’t matter anymore. “Take care of your sister,” Dean said, clapping Tucker on the shoulder. “If she’s anything like Sammy, she’ll need it.”  
  
Tucker smiled. “I will.”   
  
  
\--  
  
A part of Dean wanted to stay, even if Ms. Hawkins’ ghost sort-of haunted him. Tucker wasn’t that bad a guy, and could be cool, and Dean had even kind-of liked talking to him. But… what if Ms. Hawkins had decided to sacrifice them both, and not just him? Hunters couldn’t get close to people, just like Dad always said.  
  
So, Dad put that town in their rearview and Dean never looked back.  
  
Honest.

 


	27. because of my brother I stray through the wilderness and cannot rest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title: because of my brother I stray through the wilderness and cannot rest  
> Fandom: “Supernatural”
> 
> Prompt: Sam's thoughts and his frame of mind when he buried Dean after the events in NRFTW. Sam taking off the amulet, putting in that lighter in Dean's pocket, cleaning and stitching Dean up maybe?  
> Notes: Title from Gilgamesh. 
> 
> Written in 2009

_Sam,_ Bobby had said.  _Son, you don’t have to do this_. 

 

 _Yeah_ , Sam had answered.  _Yeah, I do._

 

It was the hardest thing he ever did.

 

But he did it.

 

.

 

First, he stripped Dean down.  Washed him, gently.  With holy water and tears, sometimes barely able to see.

 

 _Dean_ , he had said.  Sobbed.  _Dean.  I’m sorry.  You shouldn’t have—shit.  Why didn’t you let me stay dead?_

 

He waited for Dean to answer, and when his brother didn’t, he said what Dean would’ve said.  _Me for you, Sammy?  Not even a question, dude._

After all the blood was gone, Sam slowly, meticulously stitched him up.  He hadn’t even thought it to himself yet, but deep down, a part of him knew Dean would need this body back once Sam saved him.

 

There was no doubt that Sam would.

 

.

 

 _Sam_ , Bobby had said.  _We need to burn him.  You know that’s what he wants_.

 

 _What he wants?_ Sam hadn’t asked.  _He’s fucking **burning in Hell** , and you want to burn him on Earth, too?_

_No, Bobby_ , Sam had answered.  _He’ll need his body when he comes back_.

 

Bobby had stared at him in horror, but Sam just looked back, unblinking, until Bobby turned away.

 

.

 

 _Dean_ , he whispered, before shutting the coffin.  _Dean, if you can hear me—just wait.  I’m coming.  I swear I’ll get you out, if it takes me forever._

 

He slipped the lighter into Dean’s pocket because when Dean woke up he’d need to be able to see. 

 

As Sam stood back up, he saw the charm glinting on Dean’s chest, that necklace Sam gave him for Christmas.  The one he never took off.  Sam clenched his eyes shut and squeezed his fists tight, and made an oath to track Lilith down and rend her limb from limb, corporeal or not.

 

Sam gently slipped the leather cord from its home on Dean and slid it onto his neck.

 

He’d give it back to Dean soon enough. 

 

.

 

 _Sam_ , Bobby had said, _I should be there_.  _It’s not—you shouldn’t be alone now._

 

Sam didn’t look at him, didn’t respond.  Just stared at the pine box and Dean in it, Dean not moving, Dean pale and gray and so very silent. 

 

 _Thanks, Bobby_ , Sam had replied.  _But go away now_.

 

Bobby went. 

 

.

 

Sam worked with precision, shoveling dirt onto Dean’s coffin.  He didn’t stop to rest and he kept quiet.  He hummed bits and pieces of songs Dean had liked, every now and then, singing the lyrics in his head. 

 

Finally, it was done.  He patted the dirt down and then hunted for a couple of sticks.  Dean should have a marker, if only for the short amount of time he’d be in the ground. 

 

Once he had the cross, he gently worked it in at the head of Dean’s grave.   Tears coursed down his cheeks as he said, _I’ll see you, Dean.  I promise_.

 

With Dean’s amulet clutched tight enough to hurt, Sam walked away.

 

 


	28. I’ll wear red for a burning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title: I’ll wear red for a burning  
> Fandom: “Supernatural”  
> Disclaimer: not my characters; title from Anne Sexton  
> Warnings: AU after season 3; torture; violence  
> Pairings: none  
> Rating: PG13  
> Wordcount: 515  
> Point of view: third

 

 

            She flees. Her greatest weapon—the one thing that’s never ever failed in all her eons—doesn’t work on this _boy_ and she flees.

            Her son went against her wishes, formed an army, to be led by this boy, this Sam Winchester—impervious to the one thing that kills _anything_ , destroys angels and gods and demons. 

            He died in that human village, died and was gone, beyond her, beyond Hell. And her son brought him back, commanded his whore to make the deal. (And oh, yes, how the little dealmaker suffered for that insurrection. Her son escaped her wrath, killed by Sam’s brother, but the dealmaker _hurt_ before Sam killed her.) Sam can die, killed by (mostly)human hands and a rusted human weapon.

            But _she_ can’t touch him. Her greatest, most feared weapon—the reason she ruled in Hell for eons before being cast into the abyss by her upstart spawn, Azazel—fails, falters. Does not harm Sam Winchester in _any_ way.

            So she flees. Leaves the meatsuit, leaves Earth, goes back Below to rally her troops. Sam Winchester—Azazel’s chosen—will come for his brother.

            _Hello, Dean,_ she says, circling him. He formed his own Hell, as all souls do. An empty, barren place. She likes it. 

            _You’re my special one, aren’t you, Dean?_ she asks, reaching out to caress his soulface.   _We’ll have fun, the two of us. Such fun_.

            Sam will find a way down; because of Azazel, he already knows of one Gate. Not much time to play with this sad, paltry soul.

            Dean shrieks as she digs into him.  Oh, such a magnificent sound.

            Her power doesn’t work on Sam, but Dean…

            Sam will come to Hell, but he won’t find his brother. This is her realm, her world, fashioned in her image over millennia. Even the Creator no longer comes here. 

            _We’ll have such fun,_ she repeats, smiling down at him.  _Welcome, Dean._

He screams one word, his brother’s name. She rips out his tongue, his jaw, his lungs, his eyes. It will all heal by tomorrow, as she wills it. His soulface is not real, after all.

            But some things she takes that can’t be replaced. Time is fluid here, as she makes it.

            Sam will come. Will rip apart Earth and Heaven and Hell, will search every corner of every world—but Dean will no longer be. 

            She cannot touch Sam Winchester, her only child’s chosen king, but his brother? Oh, yes, him she can destroy.  She will burn him away, will erase everything of _Dean_ there was. There won’t even be enough left to cast into the abyss. 

            Sam will come, but Dean will be gone. The boy will take her throne and her realm, but victory will be hers.  Hers, and so sweet.

            Hell is for burning. And Hell is hers.   _My playground, Dean,_ she whispers.  _My will and my realm, my power. One thing in existence I can take from him, your brother—Azazel’s king. Only one thing._

Hell is for burning, and there will be nothing left of this soul when Sam comes.

 


	29. There is not another like you in the world

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title: There is not another like you in the world  
> Fandom: “Supernatural”  
> Disclaimer: not my characters; title from Gilgamesh.   
> Warnings: AU during season 5; character death  
> Pairings: none stated  
> Rating: PG  
> Wordcount: 605  
> Point of view: third

Staring down at Dean’s empty shell, at what Michael left behind when he returned to Heaven, Sam’s eyes were dry, and his mouth, his fingers clenched into useless fists.

 

He was so very tired of burying his brother.

 

 _Can you bring him back?_ he asked the small bit of the MorningStar left in him.  _This is your fault._

_I can’t,_ Lucifer murmured.  _I’m sorry._

_Yeah,_ Sam said.  _You’re sorry_.

 

The world had been saved.  Hell shoved back.  Zachariah smote by Michael, Castiel lost searching for a God that refused to be found.

 

Sam knelt, fingers digging into the dirt, and he muttered, “You gotta stop doing this to me, Dean.”

 

 _Why did I survive?_ he asked Lucifer.

 

 _Because I have not yet completely left you.  When I do so, you will be as much a shell as Dean,_ he explained gently.

 

Slowly, methodically, Sam filled in the hole, dumping eight feet of earth onto his brother, the last family he had.  There would be no resurrection this time; Michael burned too brightly, scouring Dean’s soul from existence.  There was nothing left of him except a car and a corpse—Castiel still had his amulet, somewhere in the cosmos, and his ring vanished in the fight.

 

 _What do I do?_ Sam asked.

 

 _What do you want to do?_ Lucifer asked in reply.  _I have only a portion of my strength.  Vengeance would be pointless—saving creation merely to destroy it?  Your brother’s death would mean nothing._

 

Sam bowed his head.  _I won’t do anything stupid,_ he muttered.  _Like storming Heaven to kill Michael._

 

He turned away from the unmarked grave and walked into the woods.  It began to rain, tiny little droplets, and he wondered if they were Heaven’s grief.

 

Michael hadn’t said he was sorry.  Hadn’t expressed any regret for killing Dean.  Had left without even a nod to Dean’s sacrifice.  Sam paused, turning his face up to the sky.  “Did you even notice?” he screamed.  “Michael!  Did you even notice what he did for you?”

 

The rain fell harder, in larger drops.  _He noticed_ , Lucifer murmured.  _He noticed, and he mourns._

 

“If I ever see you again,” Sam shouted, “I’ll kill you, Michael!”  _I swear_ , he told Lucifer, collapsing to his knees.

 

 _He knows, my dear_ , Lucifer said, and Sam felt a warmth envelop his soul, the equivalent of Lucifer’s kiss.

 

Sam slouched on the forest floor, letting rain soak through his clothes, hoping the water might rinse him clean.  Might erase his sins and his shame.

 

 _You’ll catch your death_ , the devil of devils said reproachfully.

 

“No,” Sam replied softly.  “I won’t.”  He couldn’t, he knew.  Just as Dean was gone forever, Sam could never die.  He wouldn’t ever see his brother again.

 

Lucifer sighed, the warmth filling Sam to the brim.

 

Blinking, Sam chuckled.  “Are you…” he gasped through the sudden onslaught of tears.  “Are you huggin’ me?”

 

_You will survive this, Samuel.  You will move on—you must move on with your life.  You still—_

“Hush,” Sam murmured, letting his mind wander.  If he had so much power, he should be able to do anything he wanted.  Go back, but not like Castiel sent Dean.  He should change things.

 

He would change things.  He had to, for Dean.  Save Dean.

 

 _No, Sam_ , Lucifer said.  _You can’t.  Let things stand._

_You need to leave now,_ Sam told him, and Lucifer howled with pain as he vanished.

 

The power, Sam had finally realized, was not in the fallen angel.  The power lay in the vessel.

 

A door in the depths of his soul opened, finally unlocked, and he stepped through.


	30. Watcher

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title: Watcher  
> Fandom: "Supernatural"  
> Disclaimer: not my characters. just for fun.  
> Warnings: takes place during "Home"; AU  
> Pairings: none  
> Rating: PG  
> Wordcount: 405  
> Point of view: third

She watches them, John’s boys. Sam is powerful, dangerously so, but Dean—  
  
She tries to read his mind, to see into his soul, just to be sure, but she can’t get past his surface thoughts. An opaque shield blocks her, the best she’s ever come across.  
  
Sam is an open book; his mind is wide. Everything he is reveals itself before her basest of searches. But Dean—something in him snarls at her, gets up her defenses. Something about him frightens her, moreso even than Sam, whose power nearly outshines the sun.  
  
Sam, the dear boy, is floundering beneath his gifts, unsure and unsteady. He’s lost, wondering which way is up, where to turn.  
  
She knows that more is coming, much more. It is written on the air around him. The thing that killed Mary, killed Jessica—it is not through with Sam yet. She wonders where Dean fits in. Where he is in the killer’s plans.  
  
She snaps at him to cover her fear. Mocks him for Jenny’s benefit, for Sam’s entertainment. Only his surface thoughts are available to her, his nervousness about being back in Lawrence, his fear for his father, his uncertainty of Sam and how he can help—but if she tries to go deeper, she’s forcibly thrown out.  
  
She doesn’t think he knows. Doubts he has any idea, any inkling. And that scares her even more. To have such power and not know—a part of her wonders how the world still remains, but he must have some control.  
  
So she watches them as they work, watches them interact, more than brothers, more than partners—they’re friends. Sam’s feelings for Dean are tinted with anger, with fear, with disappointment, but over them all soars a love so deep and true, she doubts it could ever be broken.

.

After Mary saves her sons, Missouri reaches out again, tries to feel Dean’s soul like she can Sam’s.  
  
His gaze flickers over to her, the hint of a smirk twisting his lips. He says goodbye with a touch of irony.  
  
She can’t even hear his surface thoughts anymore.  
  
She reaches for Sam’s mind only to feel herself slapped back. Her eyes shoot from Sam to Dean, Dean whose smirk is full blown now and Sam whose eyes are still innocent.  
  
Well.  
  
She watches them drive away with fear blossoming in her chest.  
  
She wonders if John knows and if it’s too late.

 


	31. the summer shores, where all is green

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title: the summer shores, where all is green  
> Fandom: “Supernatural”  
> Disclaimer: not my characters; title from Elizabeth Barrett Browning  
> Warnings: AU during season 2, major character death  
> Pairings: none  
> Rating: R  
> Wordcount: 1000  
> Point of view: second

                Blood drips from his fingernails, congealing on the glass floor, trailing along as gravity does its eternal job.

                “Dean.”

                He doesn’t look over, just watches the wall with that flat stare. That dead stare. It scares the shit out of you. You’d do anything to make it go away.

                Well… almost anything. Not what he asked of you before hiding himself away behind those empty eyes.

                “Dean,” you say again. “He wouldn’t want this for you.” 

                You would call him son, tell him how much you care. But you lost that right, and he’s never been your blood.

                This isn’t right. Not right at all. But it was the only option left. It’d be a mercy to kill him. All those things he screamed at the end—he’ll come back into those eyes of his one day and make them true.

                You deserve it, you know. You’ll let him take his vengeance, not fight. Others, though… they won’t be so understanding.

                It’d be easy, now. One bullet to the brain or the heart. Intravenous drugs. You could probably suffocate him and he wouldn’t struggle, just stare at the damned wall.

                “Dean, boy, c’mon.”

                Nothing. Nothing at all. How’s it come to this, one of John’s boys dead (the fucking **Antichrist** , how fucked up is **that**?) and the other just a shell, completely comatose with wide-open eyes? You just don’t know.

                “Bobby.” Ellen comes in, one sad glance at Dean. “No change?”  
                You shake your head. 

                “Gordon’s riled them up,” she says. “They’ll bay for his blood soon. What should we do?”

                “They were good boys,” you murmur. “You only saw them after John died. But they were good boys, good men.”

                You choke back a scream. How the hell has it come this?

                And that’s the answer. It came from Hell. Hellfire in Sam’s eyes and Sam’s blood. The same blood in Dean’s veins, the same blood that’s already damned him in Gordon and his followers’ eyes.

                But there’s nothing you can do. Dean’s as dangerous as Sam (don’t think of him as chubby, bright-eyed Sammy, curious about everyone and everything. Just… don’t.) ever was. Maybe more. Even at the end, Sam was hesitant, unsure.

                But Dean will extract vengeance from the world, when he comes back to himself. Bitter, brutal vengeance, and not just on the guilty.

                You remember him as an overprotective brother, back when Sam was only knee-high. Dean will blame everyone who lives that Sam doesn’t anymore, and never again.

                “Forgive me,” you whisper. Dean will only ever see that knee-high baby, not the man who was so close to embracing the darkness. Who couldn’t help but slide over the edge. “It was for the best, Dean. Even if you’ll never believe it.”  
                Ellen places a hand on your shoulder. “I’m sorry, Bobby,” she says. “I know you loved them.”

                “They were good boys,” you repeat softly. “The best of boys.”

                Shouting in the next room. Eager, excited voices. Men who just killed the Antichrist. They think they’re immortal, invincible.

                You look at Dean, blood dripping from his fingernails, and you know better.

                “Bobby,” Ellen says again. “What do we do?”

                You don’t know. You just don’t know. None of this is right. None of it. Sam was such a happy child, so kind of a man… one of the best people you ever knew. But at the end… you had no choice. You didn’t.

                Dean doesn’t, wouldn’t, couldn’t see it that way, and you can’t find it in you to blame him.

                “Let’s go,” you tell her. 

                It’s the coward’s way out, but you’ve already watched one of John’s boys die. You don’t have it in you to watch the other, too.

                “Okay,” she replies.

                You can’t meet her eyes. You can’t look back. They’re baying for blood, those hunters who saved the world. Lost in victory, in the victor’s madness. They won’t listen to an old man. If you stay around, they may even start to ask why you didn’t see it sooner, what Sam would become.

                You lead the way, slinking around the crowd. Gordon’s eyes track you, but he doesn’t say anything. He is their god, their king, the man who stopped the Antichrist.

                You almost wish Dean would wake up before what comes next, so he goes down fighting. Almost. His fury, though, his hatred… there’s no guarantee they would win. Sam (not Sammy, not Sammy, not that precocious boy with floppy hair and shining green eyes) was caught by surprise, at the beginning of his powers. Dean, though… he won’t go down easy. He’ll fight with everything he is, everything he has, that fire from his soul lashing out, and those men—they saved the world. They saved billions from Hell’s chosen king.

                But they killed Dean’s brother to do it. Shot him with Colt’s kill-all gun, poured gallons of holy water on him, said half a dozen exorcisms over his writhing body, and still he fought.

                And Dean… Dean. However long you have left to live, his agonized howls will echo in your nightmares. Gordon left it to you to keep Dean contained, and you did. For the good of everyone else, you did. It was only when Sam’s body collapsed and lay still, sluggishly bleeding and horrifically broken, that Dean fell in on himself, blankly staring.

                “Forgive me,” you whisper again, sitting shotgun in Ellen’s car. Your soul hurts. Your eyes ache with tears you refuse to shed. 

                “He would,” Ellen lies, and by her voice she knows it. “If he could think clearly, he would.”

                You hold in the snort her words induce with hardship. She’s the last ally—friend—you can claim, and she means well. She doesn’t know Dean like you do, though.

                It’ll be better for the world that he dies in that backroom, still lost—hiding— somewhere deep in himself. 

                It will be. You know it. Somehow, that doesn’t make it any easier.

                Ellen asks where to go. Like so much else, you just don’t know. 

 


	32. There are hidden corners of sky

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title: There are hidden corners of sky  
> Fandom: Supernatural  
> Disclaimer: not my characters; title from Denise Levertov.   
> Warnings: “What Is and What Should Never Be” dream ‘verse  
> Pairings: Sam/Jessica, Dean/Carmen, John/Mary  
> Rating: PG  
> Wordcount: 505  
> Point of view: third

When Sam graduates, he sends invitations to the whole family. Top of his class at Stanford law—he’s got something to be proud of, after all. He knows Mom will come, no doubt of that. But Carmen mentioned, last time she called Jess, that Dean is still having some trouble differentiating between reality and his mind.

Sam isn’t sure he should send Dean an invitation. Even if Dean remembers who he is, he knows that Dean’s always been a nervous flyer. Dean has never believed that planes are safe, so maybe, for everyone’s peace of mind, he should just cut Dean out of his life. Still talk to Mom, but pretend he doesn’t have a brother. Dean is an embarrassment, a constant source of grief and anger. 

“You can’t do that,” Jessica tells him when he mentions the idea. “It isn’t right, Sam. He’s your brother, and he’s sick. He needs your support.”

Sam hasn’t ever really mentioned the hardships of having Dean for a big brother. How everyone always saw Dean, but so rarely noticed Sam. How Dean could have gone anywhere, done anything, if he’d just tried. Instead he played baseball and coasted by with passing grades. And then, his last game of junior year, he ruined his elbow. No more pitching, and too late to salvage his GPA.

But Sam, _he_ applied himself. He took gifted classes. He vowed to get out of Kansas and Dean’s shadow, and he succeeded. He’s graduating from Stanford law, and Dean’s in Lawrence, a mechanic who had a breakdown. 

He loves Dean. Really, he does. But he can barely stand his brother. Dean’s so much work, a disappointment. Sam’s tired of him.

But he remembers being a kid, and Dean patiently teaching him how to throw, curve and slider and fast. Riding a bike, ‘cause Dad was so often busy or drunk. Dean gave him the attention Dad didn’t, all the way until Dean got to middle school. And then Dean became the cool kid on campus. He no longer had the time for a geeky kid brother.

“Who read to you?” Jessica asks one night, a month before graduation. “When you were young, who helped you love literature?”

Sam kisses the hollow of her throat. “Dean,” he whispers. “It was always Dean. Dean is why I’m here today.”

Jessica smiles at him. “So let him celebrate with you, if he wants. He may well be the boy you remember, not the man you know.”

So Sam labels an envelope and mails his brother an invitation. He doesn’t ask his mom or Carmen if Dean plans on coming or not. Dean has medical concerns, after all, and he hates to fly.

But Dean is sitting with Mom and Jessica and Carmen as Sam walks across the stage, and Sam feels buoyed, like the first time he threw a curve ball and Dean crowed in proud joy. 

Sam meets Dean’s gaze, face shining with a wide grin, and Sam hopes that maybe things will change now.


	33. Silence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title: Silence  
> Fandom: SN  
> Disclaimer: Not my characters. Just for fun.  
> Warnings: AU for pilot  
> Pairings: Sam/Jessica  
> Rating: PG-13  
> Wordcount: 420  
> Point of view: third

Sam steps under the shower fully clothed and turns the water on as hot as he can stand it. She follows him and wraps her arms around him; he clutches her hands and sobs silently into the spray of scalding water.

Her arms tighten and she’s muttering something he can’t make out. Slowly, he sinks down to his knees and she falls with him; he turns and pulls her close. She curls up in his arms and he understands her small litany to be, _I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so so sorry._

He cups her face and says, _It wasn’t your fault. Jess… it wasn’t your fault._

She looks up and meets his eyes, tears mixing with the water running down her face. Not for the first time, he sees just how like his brother’s her eyes are, and it hits him deep inside. He leans forward and rests his forehead against hers.

They remain like that until the water is freezing and it seems there are no more tears to cry.

-

Sam calls Dad the next day and leaves a voicemail he can’t remember. The funeral is small and full of lies. None of Dean’s few friends—old contacts of Dad’s—are there, just Sam and Jessica and the preacher.

There is nothing to say. Sam holds Jessica tight and lets the preacher’s voice wash over him, and knows Dean died how he wanted to. How he’d always wanted to.

It was quick and it was brutal, and he took a hit meant for Sam.

Now, days later, standing before an empty coffin, Sam can still smell the fire.

-

Sam inventories the Impala’s trunk, making note of what needs to be replaced. There’s enough weapons to take a small country and he adds what he’d brought with him to Stanford.

Dean’s necklace is around his neck, all that remains of his brother beyond memory, weapons, and car.

 _I’m going with you,_ she says, stepping next to him. In her hands, she holds a duffle bag and her purse. _He… he did it for me, too._

Sam turns and cups her face. _Okay,_ he tells her and kisses her gently.

He slams the trunk and walks around the car, sliding into the driver’s seat. Jessica opens the back door and tosses her bags inside, then slips shotgun.

The music is loud, a harsh beat that has an echo in Sam’s memory.

He pulls away from Stanford with only one regret: four years of silence that will haunt him forever.

 


	34. wearied wings and willing feet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title: wearied wings and willing feet  
> Warnings: AU during season 4, gore & violence, character death, Sam doing very bad things to get his brother back

            Castiel is a disapproving presence at his back.  _He would not want this_ , the angel says.

            Sam snarls, _No shit, Sherlock._   He glares over his shoulders.  _Make yourself useful or go away._

            Castiel’s expression is sad.  _I am here to offer you aid, Sam.  That is something he would want._

            Sam rolls his eyes, focusing back on the spell.  He found it in one of Bobby’s ancient scrolls, a powerful magic that requires a blood sacrifice.  It will cost a great deal and he knows what the price will be—but Lilith stole Dean in the night while Sam was away.

            _He will be angry,_ Castiel says, coming around to stand in front of Sam.

            Sam looks up at him, meeting Castiel’s eyes.  _But he’ll be back._

            Castiel nods.  _Yes.  He will be back._

            Sam slices his palm, letting blood drip into the chalice made of human bone.  _I need a life,_ he says.

            Castiel sighs _.  I will not be forgiven._

            Standing, Sam offers Castiel the knife, pure silver, sharpened by an ebony stone.  _It’s the only way to save Dean._

            Castiel reaches out and lightly grips the smooth ivory handle.  _Yes_ , the angel whispers.

            Sam watches, unflinching, as the he shoves the dagger into his body’s chest, all the way to the hilt.

            _Forgive me, Father_ , Castiel murmurs and leaves the human body.  The man, leaking blood, falls to the floor, eyes unseeing. Sam leans over and pulls the dagger out, turning back to the chalice.

            Castiel floats, a pale fog, before solidifying again into a human-like form.  _And now?_ he asks.

            Sam ignores him, murmuring a demonic chant older than human civilization.  The language rolls of his tongue with ease.  He kneels again, shoving a finger into the corpse’s chest.  Still murmuring, he draws out some blood. Sam finishes the incantation and waits, Castiel at his side.

            He waits until dawn. But the summons doesn’t bring him Dean, and Sam’s eyes flare yellow in rage.  He blinks away the golden hue and demands, _Why didn’t it work?_

            Castiel answers sadly, _Lilith is ancient_.

            Sam takes a deep breath, exhales, and turns sharply on his heel.  _So be it_ , he says.  This plan failed.  No matter.

            _Sam_ , Castiel asks.  _What is the plan now?_

            Sam looks at him.  his angelic body is not much different than his human meatsuit.  His wings are soot-stained.  _So you’ve Fallen, then?_

            Castiel lowers his head.  _I killed an innocent man, at the behest of an abomination._

            Sam barks a laugh.  _You could’ve just said yes._

            He pulls another scroll out of the pile on Bobby’s desk.  _I’ll need a virgin_ , he tells Castiel.  _Preferably male, but it doesn’t really matter_.

            Castiel sucks in a breath, his wings flaring out.  _What else does this plan require?_ His voice is shaky.

            Sam pauses, spine straightening as he turns to look Castiel in his bright, unfathomable eyes.  _I could tell you_ , he says _.  I could tell you every single horrific, disgusting thing I need to do to get Dean back.  Would it keep you from doing what I request?_

            Castiel doesn’t reply and Sam continues, _I could charge Lilith’s frontlines.  It’d destroy a good chunk of North America and kill a few hundred million people, but that’s no loss, right?  It might even tear open a few hellgates, letting out the hordes.  Would that be better?_

            Castiel flinches, looking away.  Sam sighs.  _I’ve weighed all the options.  This is the best way._

            Closing his eyes, Castiel clasps his wings to his back.  Softly, he asks _, Does age matter?_

            Sam shakes his head.  _It won’t really affect the spell, but after puberty would be best._

_When is he needed by?_

            Sam thinks for a moment.  _Dusk, tomorrow_.

            Castiel slowly walks to the door.  Sam calls, _Dean doesn’t need to know you helped.  I’ll accept full responsibility._

            The newly-fallen angel pauses.  _Thank you, Sam_ , he says without turning.  _But no.  He must know the depth of my devotion._   Castiel glances over his shoulder.  _I Fell for him._

 _He will forgive us,_ Sam assures him.  _Dean can’t stay angry for long_.

            Castiel smiles, infinitely woeful, and leaves.

            Sam turns back to the scroll.  He has much to prepare. 

            _He would not want this_ , Castiel had said.  No, he wouldn’t. If Dean knew what his salvation from Lilith will cost, he’d beg Sam to stop.

            But he’s not here.  He’s prisoner of the monster that had already tortured him for lifetimes, and Sam will save him.

            Ruby taught him the basics and the rest he learned on his own, surpassing his teacher with ease.  She’d been the sacrifice for his first attempt.

            No, Dean wouldn’t like this road at all.  Sam doesn’t care.

            Bobby’s body frowns at him from the corner.  _Stop looking at me like that_ , Sam mutters and one of his oldest friends catches fire.

            _You’ll forgive me, Dean_ , he says _.  You will._ He walks to the kitchen, staring out the window. For a moment, his eyes glow yellow and he looks at a world tinted golden.

            He fills a glass with water, drains it down, and goes to clean up his failure.

 


	35. when all we wanted was the dream

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title: when all we wanted was the dream  
> Fandom: “Supernatural”  
> Disclaimer: not my characters; just for fun. Title from “Wait” by Sarah McLachlan.   
> Warnings: slight AU for the Harvelle family  
> Pairings: Bill/Ellen  
> Rating: PG  
> Wordcount: 750  
> Point of view: third

She remembers him vaguely, as a solemn little boy with eyes only for the baby. He was such a serious child, those few days she cared for him and Sammy, never letting his brother out of his sight. Jo herself was a newborn, but Bill said he owed John and they had to help.

 _Please, babe_ , Bill had pled.  _Just a couple’a days. I gotta do this with Johnny_. She’d nodded her assent, studying the two little boys, cradling Jo close.

Bill kissed her hard and walked out the door, on John’s heels, and she had three babies to deal with instead of just one.

Dean never left Sam’s side, not for anything. He never spoke, either, just kept his eyes on her or Sam, always on the lookout for a threat. 

Bill and John came back a week later, triumphant and smiling. After John took his boys and left, Bill told her, _I haven’t seen Johnny smile like that since he first wed Mary._

 .

When Jo’s all of three, Tony enters the world shrieking and howling. Jo loves her little brother, promising Ellen and Bill to always look after him.

Ellen remembers that solemn little boy and tells her daughter to just be Tony’s friend.

 .

Bill dies in the autumn after Tony’s seventh birthday, on a solo hunt. He’d sworn it’d be his last, that once it was over, he’d be home for good.

The night Ellen learns that Bill’s dead, she curls up in their bed with their children and sobs.

 .

John comes by not long after, sons grown large by his side. Dean’s still silent but Sam’s into everything, a welcome distraction for Jo and Tony. John sets Dean to watching them, keeping the younger kids safe, and pulls Ellen from her misery with stories about Bill from the war.

The Winchesters stay for the better part of a month and Ellen’s sorry to see them go. 

 .

Ellen doesn’t see Dean or Sam for years, though John swings by now and again. Jo and Tony grow, and she teaches them to shoot. Jo wants to go to school, but Tony just wants to hunt. 

She wishes he’d pick another path, but he is his father’s son. She sends him to Caleb for guidance and doesn’t see him for months at a time.

 .

When Jo’s twenty-one, John’s sons break into the Roadhouse. Tony’s still with Caleb, out hunting something; she hasn’t spoken to him in five months, hasn’t seen him in six.

She doesn’t know them as John’s boys, at first; they’ve grown so much, have changed so much—but then she hears their names, sees how Dean watches over Sam, and she knows.

From Dean’s bearing and Sam’s expression, she also knows that John is gone. She offers her condolences—Bill’s been dead for eleven years, but his loss still aches—and Dean snipes at her, his words and tone telling her to back off.

He isn’t a solemn little boy anymore, isn’t quiet or muted. He’s dangerous and capable, bright and loud. If she hadn’t seen him as a child with her own eyes, she wouldn’t believe he’d ever been that boy.

While they’re still there, waiting for Ash’s information, Tony walks through the door. Dean is lightly flirting with Jo—nothing truly serious, either because he’s still shaken by John’s death or he knows Ellen’d castrate him—and Sam’s talking with an old, grizzled hunter in the corner.  

Tony takes in the bar at a glance, Ellen sees, cataloguing where everyone is and who might be a threat. He’s all of eighteen and already a hunter. He hugs her and Jo, kissing them both, but his eyes never leave Dean. 

 _They’re John Winchester’s sons,_ Ellen tells him. Living with Caleb, Tony’s definitely heard the stories of one of the most respected hunters in the United States. She doesn’t know if he’d figured out that Uncle Johnny was the same man, but when he meets her gaze, she sees the deep sadness.

 _Caleb told me he’d passed_ , Tony says and she nods.

 .

Dean and Sam leave the next day, heading back to Bobby’s.  _Y’all are welcome anytime,_ she tells them as they go. 

Sam smiles. Dean nods. Neither of them says a word. 

Ellen puts Jo and Tony to work restocking the bar; she sits at a table and stares at the corner where, years before, a solemn little boy huddled beside his baby brother and watched the world with wary eyes.

Not much has changed.

 


	36. the way we danced

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title: the way we danced   
> Fandom: “Supernatural”  
> Disclaimer: not my characters; just for fun. Title from Denise Levertov.   
> Warnings: racist language; racism   
> Pairings: Dean/Cassie  
> Rating: PG  
> Wordcount: 680  
> Point of view: third

            Cassie learned about skin color in first grade when Mark Castillo called her a nigger.  She’d never known about it before.  The word didn’t hurt, not ‘til later, but the tone—he sounded so angry and she had no idea why.  Mrs. Wilson put him in time-out and didn’t let him go to recess.  She also gave Cassie extra cookies at snack.

            Cassie asked Mama about the word and Mama cried.  Daddy hugged her close.  All they said was it was nasty and hateful, but words can’t hurt, not really, unless you let them.

            That was Cassie’s first experience with racism.  There were never very many over the years, just some comments here and there, but she read her history books and listened to the old folks who had lived it.  Her mother told her to marry a black man because straddling the line was so hard.

            “I would do it again,” Mom said.  “I love your daddy that much.  But I want an easier life for you.”

            She chose journalism and made good grades and had dozens of friends but none that were very close.  Cassie wanted to succeed and had no time for frivolities.  She’d had two boyfriends in her entire life, neither of which lasted longer than a year. 

            “Are you happy?” Mom asked.  “That’s all I want for you.”

            “Take a break,” Dad said.  “You’ll burn out.”

            But Cassie knew her limits and knew she had reserves of strength left that hadn’t even been touched.

            It was just after her twenty-third birthday when Dean Winchester padded into her life, like a giant cat in James Dean’s coat.  He was gorgeous and funny and sweet—and dangerous.  So very very dangerous.  Cassie had never been boy-crazy but missed days of work for him.  He took her to art galleries and museums and for walks in the park.  They fell into bed and worshipped each other, and Cassie felt out-of-control.  She liked it.

            She traced his scars, kissed each one, and said, “Tell me.”  He made up fanciful stories and she listened to his heartbeat.

            It lasted for almost a month.  Then he told her he hunted ghosts and she tossed him out of her life.

            Cassie went back home, went to work with Dad, and tried to forget Dean Winchester, his hands and eyes and, God, his lips.  She dreamed about him and fantasized about him, the first white boy she ever kissed.  He had never seemed to notice the dirty looks from little old ladies and grizzled old men.  Cassie ignored them, but Dean didn’t see them, and Cassie had to remind herself he was crazy when the regret caused tears in her eyes.

            He was crazy and clearly wanted to break-up—why else say something so out there?  But even when he was hurt and angry, he had never said the slurs that others dropped so easily, with such glee.  He had stared at her with those eyes, so wide and aching, and though he’d opened his mouth, he said nothing.

            She’d yelled, “Get out!” and he went.  He could have torn her apart—she’d felt the power in his body, the strength in his hands.  He could have beaten her, with fists or words, and she’d known other men that would’ve.  But she told him to go and he did.  He drove out of town in his behemoth of a car and left her crying.

            Cassie had thought about forever, had imagined them as old and happy, like her parents, still in love after almost forty years.  But Dean had to tell her some bullshit story, trying to break-up, and then she went home.  Alone.

            She had no time for dating or friends.  She was either at the paper or writing, trying to make it big, with breaks for eating, sleeping, and visiting her parents.

            “You’ll burn out,” Dad said.  “Slow down, baby.  You’re young.  Go out and have fun!”

            “I will, Dad,” she promised, and went right back to work.

            Two weeks later, she called Dean and he didn’t seem that crazy at all.

 


	37. Two, of course there are two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title: Two, of course there are two  
> Fandom: “Supernatural”  
> Disclaimer: not my characters; title from Sylvia Plath.  
> Warnings: AU during season 4  
> Pairings: none stated  
> Rating: PG  
> Wordcount: 550  
> Point of view: third   
> Prompt: Dean/Sam. Dean as Lucifer and Sam, the Antichrist  
> Note: That line (you'll know the one) is from The Last Unicorn

He is ancient, older than the sky and the sea.  He remembers the stars being born, when the sun first shed light. He remembers the first word and the first sigh.

 

He was first, before all others save the Creator. He was first, the best, the Star of Morning, the dawn of beginnings.

 

He remembers the others, his sisters and brothers. He remembers the first command: love. Love each other, love the creations, love Me. 

 

He is ancient and proud. It was that pride, that refusal to kneel before lesser beings, that saw him thrown from the sky, into an abyss of fire and blood. But even there, beneath the banners of Hell, he refused to submit to anyone and clawed his way to the throne.

 

He is the MorningStar, once the most powerful of angels and now the high lord of demons. 

 

He is a newborn human, cradled in the arms of an exhausted blonde, and he has no memory of the eons past.

 

.

 

All his life, Sam felt like something was missing. The closest that fissure in his soul came to being closed was when he and Dean worked in tandem, or when they curled up together, close enough to share their breath. Sometimes, he thought he could hear Dean when they were miles apart, or he felt Dean's emotions like his own.

 

When he was ten, he bought a basket of books at a church sale and devoured them on the trip from Iowa to Maine. In one of them he found the line _two halves of the same magic_ , and it sounded right. Him and Dean, complete together, inseparable. Whole.

 

.

 

Dean dreams of Hell long before he spends any time there.  He sees fire and blood mingle, lakes of ash and brimstone, pillars of bone and a palace of shattered souls.

 

Castiel's hand burned Dean because that which is holy can never touch the impure.

 

.

 

Sam does not remember striding up Heaven's front walk and being stopped at the door.

 

"I am sorry," Saint Peter said.  "You can't come in here."

 

Sam doesn't remember how it hurt, being turned away.  How it burned.

 

How it made something inside him howl; how it made something inside him scream.

 

.

 

He is ancient, and Alistair does not know what he did. Hell's chief tormentor, the MorningStar's acolyte—when he sharpened his blades in Dean's ribcage, he does not know what he awoke.

 

The man who dug his way out his own grave is not the man who was buried there.  But even still, he does not know, cannot yet remember—

 

.

 

When Sam kills Lilith and the last Seal breaks, Dean clutches Sam and Sam clutches Dean.

 

The floor groans, long-held locks shattering, and something inside Dean shrieks.

 

Sam echoes the sound, as they both fall to their knees.  "Dean?" he gasps.

 

The man who returned to life was not the man who died.  The man to rises to his feet in a cursed church is not the man who collapsed to the ground.

 

"Brother," he says, dark wings unfurling. "Come.  We have a war to win."

 

.

 

He is ancient, and he is awake. His brother, the other half of his soul, torn from him as he fell out of the sky, has finally returned.

 

They have work to do.

 

 


	38. Ares (crossover with Devour)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> takes place post-film. goes AU during season 2. 
> 
> warnings for violence and major character death.

Sam can’t explain and it hurts his head to even try. But there’s Dean and there’s Jake and somehow they both exist, identical except Dean’s twenty-eight and Jake’s twenty-two. 

It doesn’t make sense.

Jake’s tightlipped and Dean’s wary. Dean refuses to leave Sam alone with Jake and Jake refuses to be alone with Dean. Sam’s running low on patience and sleep, and Dean keeps all the weapons away from Jake.

Jake doesn’t say a thing about where he’s from or what happened in his past, but one time he mentions something in passing to Sam and then it happens. So, with Dean hovering in the background, half mother-hen and half guard-dog, Sam starts talking about his nightmares that come true. And sometimes happen while he’s awake.

Jake’s eyes go to Dean and Sam practically begs Dean to leave. It takes pleading, assurance, and puppy eyes, but finally Dean says he’ll be gone for five minutes tops.

And Jake spills all. He tells Sam about his waking nightmares and his family dying and his friends dying and his mother who called herself the devil. He tells Sam about the arrest and then release because of lack of evidence.

Sam listens, silent and non-judgmental.

By the time Dean comes back, Jake is quiet again. But his eyes—the same as Dean’s when Sam left for Stanford—linger on Sam’s face.

He didn’t ask Sam to keep it from Dean.

.

When he sleeps, Sam dreams of a life that’s not his. A warm mother who’s paralyzed from the neck down, a stern father who sometimes drinks too much, a best friend who’s abused, a fuck-buddy whose father rapes her—and waking nightmares that always eventually come true.

It isn’t a good life he dreams of. And everyone calls him _Jake_.

.

Sam tells Dean about Jake while Jake takes a shower.

Dean raises an eyebrow and drawls, “Right.”

But Sam says, “Dean, I believe him,” and Dean looks away, at the bathroom door. He’s quiet for a minute, the kind of quiet Sam associates with death and danger. Still in a way only the greatest of predators can be.

“I won’t let you kill him,” Sam murmurs and Dean meets his eyes, smirks.

“Wasn’t plannin’ to, Sammy,” he answers and Sam knows it’s the truth.

.

He still doesn’t know how it happened. But the vision woke him up screaming and he told Dean they had to go _now_. Driving down the highway in the middle of Montana, they found Jake, bloodied and bruised and broken in a way neither of them ever had been.

Jake who looked like Dean did years ago. Exactly the same.

Dean wasn’t sure what to do, but Sam said they had to pick him up.

And it didn’t take much convincing; Jake was so worn-out, so run-down, so weary—he just wanted to rest. He fell asleep in the back seat, even with Dean’s music shrieking, and slept for over twenty-four hours.

When he woke up, he was a part of them. Dean wouldn’t turn his back, convinced for a while it was a trick, and then not turning his back was habit. Sometimes, Sam dreamed and knew it was actually Jake, but he didn’t know how to start the conversation. He thought it was him, not Jake, and then Jake’s waking nightmares…

He watches Jake and Dean, noting the similarities and differences. Jake isn’t as hard as Dean, but seems just as weary. He has less scars, that’s for sure, but not by much. Dean’s sense of humor is darker; Jake’s temper doesn’t fray as swiftly. They both like him and they don’t like each other.

But they do like the same kinds of movies, the same food, the same music. They both rag on him, though Jake is hesitant at first. Sam takes it all gracefully, hoping they’ll click.

And then one day he wakes up and they do.

.

It’s almost like Sam has two brothers, one older and one younger. And he finally understands how Dean must have felt all those years playing mediator.

It’s damn tiring.

But this new thing, three again instead of two—it fits. Jake blends in. They teach him to fight and he gives them a taste of normality, because until his real mom showed up, that’s mostly what he was.

When he wakes up from memory-dreams, Sam isn’t always the one to comfort him. Listening to Dean quietly assure Jake that it’s over, that nothing can hurt him anymore, Sam feels at a loss. It’s what Dean does for him, he knows, but he’s never heard it from this side before.

.

People have always looked at them, Sam and Dean. But now they get double takes.

The waitresses, and some waiters, don’t know which to hit on, Dean or Jake, and Sam just laughs.

Dean’s always used his looks, his natural charm, and his acting ability, but Jake hadn’t. Under Dean’s tutelage, Jake learns swiftly.

With them working together, Sam knows, the world doesn’t have a chance.

.

Jake’s first hunt is sixth months after he joins them on the road.

It’s a routine haunting, a malicious poltergeist, but they’d missed part of the story when they’d researched the history of the house and Dean ends up flying out the second story window.

It’s Jake who reacts instead of Sam, Jake’s hand that reaches out and keeps Dean from hitting the ground, Jake whose anger snaps like a whip and sends the poltergeist to hell like it always should have been.

Dean doesn’t remember his near swan-dive and Sam doesn’t feel like telling him. Jake doesn’t mention his sudden telekinesis and neither does Sam.

.

After, Sam wonders how he didn’t see it coming, why the dreams didn’t warn him, why Jake didn’t.

After, Sam doesn’t know who he hates more, himself, Dean, or Jake.

After, Sam has no clue what to do, where to go.

After, Sam just sits in the middle of the room his brother died in and weeps.

.

Jake, of course, survived. Sam wonders if he can die.

Sam survived, too. He knows he hates himself for that.

.

Dean never was normal, but he was more normal than Sam. After all, he didn’t have ‘abilities.’ No telekinesis, no telepathy, no premonitions—nothing but a hunter’s intuition and a brother’s instinct.

Jake apologizes every day and Sam can’t look at him.

Not with Jake having Dean’s eyes and Dean’s hair and Dean’s voice.

Marisol pokes her head in sometimes, and Sam can barely restrain himself from attacking her, from trying to kill her.

Jake watches him uncertainly and Sam wonders if Jake will warn Marisol when he finally does choose it’s time.

Remembering Jake’s memories of Connie, Sam doubts it.

.

Three years after Dean dies, killed by Marisol and her plans for world domination, killed by Mom’s killer and lies, killed by his own bull-headed overprotectiveness, Sam gets his vengeance.

Jake smirks Dean’s smirk and watches his mother die. Then he and Sam leave together, get in Dean’s car and drive away.

Dean’s music plays and they don’t know where they’re going.


	39. asleep inside the cannon's mouth (AU)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title: asleep inside the cannon’s mouth  
> Fandom: “Supernatural”  
> Disclaimer: not my characters; just for fun. Title from “You Will Be My Ain True Love” performed by Allison Krauss.  
> Warnings: AU during season 2  
> Pairings: gen  
> Rating: PG  
> Wordcount: 375  
> Point of view: third  
> Notes: I think it was originally supposed to be a “Born Under A Bad Sign” fic. Ignores everything we learned about Mary & John’s families later. 
> 
> Written in 2008.

                His hands tremble, shudder and shake, fingers clumsy on the gun. His eyes burn, inside and out, ache with knowledge, and the fear that comes with it.

_What am I? What am I supposed to do—what **can** I do?_

_Who will stand with me when the time comes and I can no longer back away?_

                When John Winchester learned the truth, he realized he had never before felt true despair. He’d never felt so hopeless, so lost, not even just after November.

                _Death is just another adventure,_ his long-dead baby brother whispers in his ear.  _Wait, Johnny. The play isn’t ready yet. Patience._

 

Mary never meant for Sam—or Dean—to get her curse.

                Of course, Mary never meant a lot of things. And in the end, what was _meant_ … just doesn’t matter. Only what _happened_ does.

                She slumps in Hell’s coldest corner, skin slick with sweat and stained with blood, ignored by the fire, wishing that she had known sooner. Because maybe, just maybe, then she could have saved her sons.

                Then again, maybe not.

 

                It whispers in the darkest corners of his mind.

_You’re mine. No matter what else comes, know that—you’re mine. You have belonged to me since before your first breath._

He can’t ignore it, shut off its voice, turn away from its words. He can’t pretend it’s not there, because it’s everywhere he looks, everything he hears. 

                _You’ll join me, when the time comes. You’ll not be able to stop. I can swear to that._

Every day, every second, and he starts listening more and more. He can’t help it. The words twist around, in, deep into his blood and bone, seep into his soul. 

 

                His hands tremble, shudder and shake, clumsy on the gun, and his brother begs, eyes terrified.

                _Save me. This is the only way._

_Save me, please._

_Dean… save me._

 

Mary never meant for this. When she sees John in Hell— _a deal’s a deal—_ she clings to him, whispering for absolution.

                He gives it freely, and asks for his own.

 

                _Stand with me,_ he says. 

                His brother raises the gun.

                _Dean,_ he laughs.  _You could never kill me._

There are tears on Dean’s face, and he no longer points the gun at Sam.

 

 


	40. and that's strike three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title: and that's strike three  
> Fandom: Supernatural  
> Disclaimer: not my characters  
> Warnings: AU during season 3  
> Pairings: none stated  
> Rating: PGish  
> Wordcount: 265  
> Point of view: second 
> 
> Written in 2010

 

"You really want to stop touching him," Dean says quietly. His eyes flick from yours to the monster in your grip.  
  
“Dean,” you say.  “You know it’s better this way.  You can’t do what needs to be done, so I will.  Simple as that.”  
  
“No,” he disagrees.  “It’s really not.”  
  
The monster whimpers, flinching back from your consecrated dagger.  “You see that?” you ask him.  “Even he knows what he is.”  
  
Dean’s expression hardens even more and he steps forward.  You back up, and the monster cries out as your dagger breaks its skin.  
  
“Dean,” the monster calls.  
  
“Let him go, Gordon,” Dean commands, and there’s more than just anger in his tone.  Now he’s pleading.  “He’s not… you’ve got it all wrong.”  
  
“No,” you say.  “You love him, Dean.  I get it, I do.  I loved my sister.  But when she turned—he _will_ turn, Dean.  It’s in his blood.  And then we’re all gonna burn.”  
  
Dean closes his eyes and lets the hand holding the gun fall to his side.  “It’s in his blood,” he echoes softly.  
  
The monster thrashes weakly in your grip; the drugs must be wearing off.  You need to kill him before they’re fully gone, but you don’t want to destroy Dean.  He’d be such a great ally, and he’s a marvelous piece of work.  Winchester did good when he trained Dean.  
  
“Dean,” you say again.  “Dean, don’t you see—"  
  
And Dean’s arm arrows up, pulling the trigger as the back of Sam’s head slams into your face.  
  
You don’t see or hear or feel anything after that.

 


	41. as they put me to the water

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title: as they put me to the water  
> Fandom: “Supernatural”  
> Disclaimer: not my characters; song from Springsteen.  
> Warnings: takes place immediately after 4.22; also AU  
> Pairings: none  
> Rating: PG  
> Wordcount: 255  
> Point of view: third
> 
> Written in 2009

_You were standing in the door, I was standing in the rain,_  
_With the same hot blood burnin’ in our veins_  
  
  
They don’t speak.  They run out of the cursed, bloodstained church; they flee into the night, soldiers with a battle they cannot win.  Shadows dog their steps, Ruby’s laugh and Lilith’s smile, and Lucifer’s worldwide wings.   
  
Sam is sorry.  So is Dean.  But regret is useless, and cannot turn back time, cannot erase what they have done.  Dean started it, unknowingly, in the bowels of Hell, Hell’s pretty little puppet in crimson chains.  And Sam—he walked into the trap, tricked and caught, so easily.   
  
They’re both to blame, but at the moment, they’re just content in being alive.  They’ve spent most of the year at odds with each other, neither listening to the other’s words.  Or even to the intent behind them.  Lost in trying to save the other—so easy to trick.  So easy to fool into falling.  
  
They’ll forgive each other; they already have.  Brothers, blood and tears, skin and bone and sweat.  It’s the rest of the world to worry about, the world that they may have very well damned.  
  
“Sammy,” Dean says, “don’t stop,” even as they both collapse, unable to keep going.  “We have to get away.”  
  
Sam looks back.  Far in the distance, the world is ending as Lucifer rises.   “Dean,” he murmurs.  “It’s tomorrow in Australia, so it can’t be armageddon, right?”  
  
“Right, Sammy,” Dean answers.  Sam pretends he doesn’t hear the tears in his voice or see the tears in his eyes.   
  
They sit together on the dirt and wait for a dawn which never comes.

 

 

 


	42. a long enough timeline

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title: a long enough timeline  
> Fandom: "Supernatural"  
> Disclaimer: not my characters; just for fun. Title from Fight Club.  
> Warnings: pre-series AU  
> Pairings: Azazel/OFC  
> Rating: PG13  
> Point of view: third  
> Wordcount: 360
> 
> Written in 2008

There is a yellow-eyed child in the cradle. It is a soft creature of flesh and blood and bone, of malice and need and desperation.

She wants to leave it. It is not hers, cannot be hers. It is other—it is his, _his_ spawn, _his_ creation. Not hers. _Never_ hers.

It blinks up at her, makes a small cooing sound, a babble of nonsense syllables. Trying to lure her in, to trick and deceive her. But she won’t give in; she won’t fall for this _notchild’s_ game, this interloper’s deception.

There is a yellow-eyed child in the cradle, and it is not hers. It looks up at her with large eyes, waving tiny arms, spreading tiny fingers and closing them into tiny fists. It looks up at her, but it is not hers. Cannot be hers. Those yellow eyes gleam, revealing the truth of its father. This is not the child she carried within her, fed with her own energy and body. It must be a changeling, left by its father. Left in place of her own sweet babe.

It giggles, reaching for her. It giggles, looking soft and innocent, and she hates it. Loathes it. Wishes, with everything in her, to kill it. It will be a threat, once grown. Perhaps the greatest since its father. But she can do nothing. That is the deal, the devil-bargain she made.

She steps back from the cradle. From the child-shaped monster. Looks down and away, turning to leave. She will care for the yellow-eyed devilspawn. She will give it food and clothing and shelter. She will raise it, and one day maybe her own child will be given back to her.

There is a yellow-eyed child in the cradle. She leaves it, going to curl beside her husband.

 ** _There’s a good girl_** , the child’s father croons.

She flinches, burrowing under her man’s arm, breathing in his scent. **_Leave me alone,_** she begs. **_I’ve done what you asked. I’ll keep my end of the bargain_**.

 ** _Yes, you will_** , he murmurs; a phantom hand caresses her neck. **_You raise my heir and one day I’ll return your daughter, your sweet little Mary._**


	43. a place we know from dreams

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title: a place we know from dreams  
> Fandom: “Supernatural”  
> Disclaimer: not my characters; title from The Last of the Mohicans.  
> Warnings: AU during season 3  
> Pairings: um… gennish wincest? Seriously, I don’t know if it’s Sam/Dean or no pairing.  
> Rating: PGish  
> Wordcount: 1635  
> Point of view: third
> 
> Written 2009

_Where the sea kisses the sky,_ he said, _that’s where I’ll find you._  
  
_Where the horizon ends, that’s where I’ll meet you._  
  
_Wait.  Just wait.  I’ll come._  
  
R _emember that.  I’ll always come._  
  
.  
  
They tell him his name is Dean Winchester.  That he’s an orphan.  That his brother is a monster and someone has to stop him.  
  
_You can do it, Dean.  We know you have the knowledge somewhere inside you.  Remember for us, please?  Can you do that?  Dean?_  
  
He doesn’t feel like a Dean.  He doesn’t feel anything but tired.  He doesn’t remember the man they say he was, or that man’s brother.  He doesn’t remember a thing.  
  
.  
  
_Wait for me, promise.  I need you to promise.  I have things to do, things that have to be done, and you’ll understand.  I swear you’ll understand._  
  
_It’s important, maybe the most important thing that’s ever happened._  
  
_I have to do this, but I can’t unless I know you’ll be there.  I have to know you’ll be on the other side, waiting for me._  
  
_I’ll come back if I know you’re there.  Promise me._  
  
.  
  
They tell him he used to hurt people.  A lot of people.  They say his mind shattered one night, after he realized that his brother was even worse than him, and he turned himself in.  Let himself be caught and kept.   
  
_You’re sick, Dean.  Very sick.  It started with your father.  You can help us stop your brother.  Just try to remember, Dean._  
  
He listens to them because he doesn’t know how to do anything else, but he has no idea what they want to hear.  His mind is one big blank, a long corridor of nothing.  
  
If he was what they say, he doesn’t want to remember.  
  
.  
  
_I’ll find you.  I’ll find you._  
  
_Wait for me._  
  
_I’ll find you._  
  
_When you’ve forgotten everything else, remember this: I will come back to you._  
  
.  
  
They show him the files, the pictures and records, the video footage.  It’s pretty damning, but he can’t recall what it is to care.  They tell him it wasn’t his fault, that he can’t be blamed for his upbringing, for the abuse and the brainwashing.  They tell him he’ll live out the rest of his life in the hospital.  
  
They call him Dean and have earnest eyes, say it’s all for the best.  Even when his mind is hazy, his body remembers how to kill.  They have to keep him restrained, drugged.  It’s for his protection as much as the others’.  
  
_It’s all for the best, Dean.  You’re dangerous to everyone and everything.  Trust us._  
  
He doesn’t.  Even when he can’t be sure of anything, he trusts the man in his dreams more than anyone he sees awake.  
  
.  
  
_Trust me_ , he said.  _Wait for me._  
  
_Stay alive.  You have to stay alive.  You’re everything.  You’re the reason I’m doing this.  Why I have to._  
  
_You’ll forget, I know you’ll forget.  I’ll make you forget because it’s safer that way._  
  
_But I will come.  After it’s done, I’ll come back.  I swear.  Wait for me._  
  
.  
  
The detectives and agents and doctors repeat their questions, getting more frustrated and angry.  The first time the lead agent takes a swing at him, no one tries to stop it.  Until he’s on the floor, bloody and bruised, no one does a thing.  
  
He was a monster, the Dean Winchester he used to be.  The man he is now has seen the evidence.  He was a monster and monsters must be punished.   
  
He stares up at them, at the men who blame him.  Who hate him for the holes in his memory and for the things he can’t tell them.  
  
He hates them right back and he spits out blood.   
  
He was dangerous, that Dean Winchester.  Even with restraints and drugs and no knowledge, he’s still more dangerous than he can explain.  
  
.  
  
_It won’t be for long.  Only a few months.  No more than a year, I swear.  I have to do this, Dean.  I have to.  Everyone will be safe and we’ll be free.  For the rest of our lives, we won’t have—we can rest.  Safe._  
  
_I can’t be what I need to be if you’re there.  Please, understand.  I can’t… I can’t do it if you’re watching, and if you remember, you’d never let me go alone._  
  
_I have to be alone for it to work.  I can’t protect you, not when I—_  
  
_Trust me.  Love me.  Please.  Wait for me._  
  
.  
  
In the safety of his room, he scours his mind.  He searches for any scrap of the man they say he was or the man who is still his brother.  They want names and where the bodies are buried, why the Winchesters tormented and murdered so many people.  
  
He can’t find anything except laughing green eyes and dimples, except warm hands and strong fingers, except a deep voice saying _I'll come back to you._  
  
He doesn’t mention that to the detectives or agents or doctors.   
  
.  
  
_I swear, I’ll be me again, after._  
  
_We can go wherever we want, do whatever we want.  I’ll give you anything._  
  
_I love you.  You’re the reason.  You’ll understand and—and I hope you’ll forgive me._  
  
_But you can’t be here now.  Not when I’m—not now._  
  
.  
  
They try treatments to jog his memory—drug cocktails, electroshock, hypnosis.  He can’t remember anything before waking up in the hospital.  They spend hours showing him every single photograph, every single case note.   
  
None of it knocks anything loose.  
  
_Damn you, Winchester_ , the lead agent growls, a man named Henriksen who loathes him.  _I know you’re playin’.  No way to forget somethin’ like you._  
  
He doesn’t respond.  Nothing to say.  Whether or not he was Dean Winchester, he isn’t anymore.  Now he’s just an identity-less man waiting for something.  
  
Looking at the photos, feeling the bolts shoot through him, gulping the water to wash down the pills—he’s always waiting.  
  
.  
  
_When it’s finished, when we’re safe, I’ll lock everything away.  I swear.  I’ll never use any of it again.  I won’t need to._  
  
_And we’ll go away.  I’ll make a place if I have to.  Just us.  You and me, Dean._  
  
_Promise. After it’s done, and I come back, promise.  Me and you._  
  
_Wait for me.  Stay alive.  Because if you die, if you’re not there… wait for me._  
  
.  
  
Five months after waking, the man who was once Dean Winchester has his first visitor.  She’s a woman named Andrea Barr and she tells him that Dean Winchester once saved her son.   There are tears in her eyes as she speaks, and her hands are soft when she places them on his.  
  
_Remember, Dean_ , she whispers, standing and leaning over the table.  _Remember your brother._  She kisses his cheek and then lets the orderly escort her out.  
  
He watches her go with wonder.  If Dean Winchester saved her son, then maybe he wasn’t a monster.  
  
The next visitor is a man named Tom Collins.  He says Dean Winchester helped save his life, and his brother and sister’s.  The third is a woman and her daughter, Susan and Tyler.  More follow.   
  
They all mention his brother.  He wishes he could remember the man.  
  
.  
  
_I’ll come back.  When you have nothing else, remember that._  
  
_I have to do this._  
  
_You’ll be safe—you won’t be touched.  That is my command._  
  
_And I’ll find you.  After it’s done, I’ll find you._  
  
.  
  
A year after he wakes up, the agents and detectives and doctors quit asking questions.  A year after he wakes up, he still doesn’t remember being Dean Winchester.   
  
A year and three weeks after he wakes up, another visitor comes.  He’s tall and broad, with sharp green eyes and shaggy dark hair.   
  
Around his neck is a golden amulet.   
  
He says, _Dean_.  He takes off the amulet and gently places the cord around the throat of the man who was once Dean Winchester.   
  
He says, _Remember_.  
  
.  
  
_Where the sea kisses the sky,_ he said, _that’s where I’ll find you._  
  
_Where the horizon ends, that’s where I’ll meet you._  
  
_Wait.  Just wait.  I’ll come._  
  
_Remember that.  I’ll always come._  
  
.  
  
Dean punches him in the face.  Dean calls him every cuss word in English, Spanish, French, and Latin.  Dean punches him again.   
  
They’re both crying, but neither mentions it.  
  
_Fuck you, Sammy_ , he growls, hands clenching Sam’s shirt.  _Fuck you for taking away my choice.  I should’a been there.  I should’a had your back._  
  
Sam clutches him close, buries his face in Dean’s neck.  _I couldn’t take the chance of you dying, Dean,_ he whispers.  _If you died… I can’t._    
  
Dean breathes in, breathes out, asks, _They all came because of you?_  
  
Sam nods without backing up or letting go.  _I didn’t want you thinkin’ you’re a monster.  You’re not._  
  
One of the orderlies bangs on the door, shouts, _Open up!_   He calls for help.   
  
Dean steps away, looks at his brother.  Sees the power coating him.  _You said you’d lock it away._  
  
Lowering his head, Sam says, _Let’s go home_.   
  
The man who is Sam Winchester’s brother says, _Okay_.   
  
.  
  
Winchester’s seat of power is where the sea kisses the sky, past the furthest point of the horizon.  Some people say he has a brother, or that he once did.  A man saved from Hell by angels.  A man killed by Winchester himself because no one else ever had the strength to destroy him.  
  
Dean knows the rumors.  He started most of them.  
  
Sam had asked him to wait, back before those final battles.  Told him to be there, after the end.   
  
Even when Dean didn’t remember, he knows he was always waiting.   
  
And they live beyond the horizon, where the sea kisses the sky.

 

 


	44. Checkmate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title: Checkmate  
> Fandom: “Supernatural”  
> Disclaimer: not my characters; just for fun.  
> Warnings: AU after All Hell Breaks Loose  
> Pairings: none  
> Rating: PG  
> Wordcount: 300  
> Point of view: third
> 
> Written in 2007

Sam dies in his arms and everything’s over. 

-

He kneels there, Sammy in his grip, and he clutches the body close. Bobby comes back, says the sum’bitch escaped, and Dean doesn’t move. Bobby tells him they have to go. Dean doesn’t answer.

Sam died in his arms and everything’s over.

-

It’s the end of the world, Bobby says, and Dean stays silent. No words have meaning anymore.

Sam’s dead.

Bobby tells him to get his head in the game, that to give in is to let Hell win.

Sam’s dead and Dean doesn’t care anymore.

Sam died in his arms and everything’s over.

-

Bobby makes plans and calls up hunters, tells everyone that it’s time. Bobby burns Sam’s body and Dean doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, doesn’t eat, barely breathes.

Hunters come and hunters go, and Dean doesn’t react. Bobby gives up on him and leads the charge.

They all die, together and apart, and demons walk unfettered.

Dean sits in Bobby’s cabin and waits.

Sam died in his arms and everything’s over.

-

It comes, as Dean’d known it would. It wears _his_ face and _his_ body, uses _his_ voice as its’ own. It smiles at him and makes _his_ stupid jokes.

Dean stares at it, looking into _his_ green eyes. He still doesn’t speak, doesn’t have the words—words don’t mean anything, anyway.

Sam died. Sam’s dead. This thing desecrates _his_ body.

It holds out Sam’s hand and asks.

Sam died in his arms—

-

And Dean clasps Sam’s hand with a smile, because Sam died in his arms and everything was over—

-

It’s the end of the world, it says with Sam’s voice, and Dean nods.

He doesn’t speak, even now. Nothing to say.

Sam died in his arms and everything’s over.

-

_ Sam dies in his arms and everything’s over _ .


	45. be a becoming and an ending

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title: be a becoming and an ending  
> Fandom: “Supernatural”  
> Disclaimer: not my characters; just for fun. Title from Anne Sexton.  
> Warnings: character death. Like, a lot. AU.  
> Pairings: none stated  
> Rating: PG  
> Wordcount: 635  
> Point of view: third  
> Notes: I asked my mom for a number. She said 35, but I already had 75 words written, so I asked her for another. 
> 
> Written 2008

 

            When Bobby is dying alone in his bed at age ninety-eight, he sees Dean Winchester. 

            “Hey, Bobby,” Dean says.  “Been awhile.”

            And then his tired heart gives out.

 

            When Jo is dying in the woods, guts leaking out of her belly, she sees Dean Winchester smirking down at her.  “Hey, sweetheart,” he says, kneeling next to her.  “How you been?” 

            She gurgles on her own blood and dies, eyes wide open.

 

            When Lisa Braedon is dying in the hospital from pancreatic cancer, her son and grandson curled up in the chair next to her bed, she sees Dean Winchester leaning against the wall.

            She blinks, then blinks again, and he’s still there. 

            “Lisa,” he says.  “You look good.”

            “Dean?” she asks.

            He smiles and pushes off the wall, saunters over to her.  “So, what was that about him not bein’ my son?”

            She follows his gaze to Ben, who has his father’s build and his father’s cheekbones, and his father’s sense of humor.

            She’d shrug if she had the energy.  “I lied.”

            He nods.  “I figured.”  He leans down and softly kisses her forehead.  “Sleep, Lisa.”

            Her eyes close and never open again.

 

            When Lucas Barr is dying in Michael Wilson’s arms, he sees Dean Winchester on the far edge of the clearing.  

            “Lucas,” he says, striding forward to kneel beside them.  “You did good, Lucas.”

            He chokes on blood when he opens his mouth to speak, and Dean reaches over to touch his cheek. “Just rest, kiddo,” Dean says softly.

            Michael is sobbing as Lucas goes.

 

            When Kathleen Hudak is dying after spinning out on an icy road and slamming into a tree, Dean Winchester is sitting next to her.

            “Wha-what’s going on?” she gasps out, unable to take a full breath.  She can’t feel her lower half and her vision is going dark.

            “Shh, Kathleen,” he says, taking her hand, the only part of her that doesn’t hurt.  “It’s okay, I promise.”

            She trusts him.  Just like back on that case, she trusts him.  “Riley?” she murmurs.

            Dean smiles.  “He’s waiting.”

            Kathleen lets go.

 

            When Ellen Harvelle is dying at age eighty-seven, having outlived everyone she ever loved, Dean Winchester is standing at the foot of her bed.  “I did care for you,” he says, eyes soft.  “I still do, you know.”

            “What are you?” she asks, voice reedy and weak.

            He smiles.  “That doesn’t matter.”

            She dies chuckling, glad to be done.

 

            When Azazel is dying, Dean Winchester holds a Colt and smiles with satisfaction.

 

            When Missouri Mosley is dying, she tells Dean Winchester, “I was right about you, boy.”  She coughs, doubling over with the force of it, covering her mouth with a tissue. 

            Dean says, “This isn’t what I intended, you know.”

            Missouri smiles at him.  “I know.” 

            Her hand spasms around the Kleenex and she goes to meet her Maker, sure in the knowledge that everything will be alright now.

 

            When Ben Collins is dying, he sees Dean Winchester, that guy who helped save him and his family that time in the woods.  Dean nods to him and says, “Hiya, kiddo.  Been a long time.”

            Ben can’t speak around the oxygen mask, but Dean seems to read his mind.  “Your brother and sister are fine, Benny-boy.  But you’re not.” 

            He steps up and holds out a hand.  “Come with me.”

            Ben is so very tired.  He does.

 

            When Dean Winchester is dying, an angel kneels beside him.  Blinding white light fills the air around him, and a resounding voice commands, _Choose_.

            “Choose what?” he mutters, trying to hold his insides in.  He doesn’t see Sam, or hear him.  “Sammy!”

            _Choose your eternal path_ , the voice pronounces.

            “Where’s Sam?”

            _Depending on what you choose_ , the voice says, _you will see him again_.

            Dean says, “I choose that way.”                                                

            He dies.

 


End file.
